


Fantastique

by grumblebee



Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Kink, Body Horror, Decapitation, Drama, Drug Abuse, Guillotine, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Oral Sex, Orgy, Rimming, Strangulation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, attempted suicide, depictions of hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-12 06:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7924102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It felt as though the air between them had caught fire. Maybe it was the gentle curve of his cheek, or the elegant length of his neck. Perhaps it was years of rejection and self imposed isolation. Ultimately, it was that no one had ever told him that his work was loved."</p><p>George Washington is a poor composer living in Paris, when the most captivating young man walks into his shop. Adoration turns to longing, and the two take a journey down a path that soon becomes dark, twisted, and bloody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Passions

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on Hector Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique". The plot is loosely based off of the composers notes.

Sunlight dribbled pitifully through the dusty, drawn curtains of George’s study. Though midday had arrived in Paris, bringing forth the hustle and bustle of daily life, it remained still and quiet here, with only the sounds of his pen scratching against the paper for company. Dark inkblots dancing across the page, climbing and falling over measures beneath his hand, silent if not for the incessant tune they strummed in his mind. George sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Life had become unbearably still, stifling. The music that once poured out of him had slowed to a drip that wrung him dry. Pieces of a symphony fluttered in his ears, but escaped him as he put his pen to the paper. Pinned up to the wall were more drafts, more rejects of what should be something indescribably beautiful, yet only the indescribable part had transcribed to paper.

The clatter of horse and carriage made its way up the cobblestone street, breaking George from his reverie. From behind the drawn curtain he could hear voices, light and airy in the sunlight. He parted the thick, worn velvet with two fingers to spy out the glass. Two men, lavishly dressed. The first clambered out of the carriage, carrying on some spirited conversation, seemingly without need of a partner. He turned, and offered a hand to the second, who clumsily managed to trip over the lip of the carriage, the cobblestone, and the first man before righting himself. High society darlings, here for something new and exciting. It seems the tutors and composers circulated in their splendid little circle have worn out their interest.

George backed away from the window, towards his desk; better to look busy than desperate. It wasn't long before the tittering laughter entered his open door.

“May I help you gentlemen?” He asked, his voice both respectful and commanding. Society darling or not, this was his work, _not_ a place for socializing. The first man stepped forward, his hair neatly pulled back at the nape of his neck in a dark green ribbon that vaguely reminded George of the pastures he grew up on.

“Monsieur Washington, I am Alexander Hamilton, you do not know me yet, but I soon hope to know you.”

The man spoke like a reed in the wind, bending and swaying in any fashion that might appease the listener. A coy oboe weeding its way through the woodwind section. Hamilton flashed a sheet of paper, a program from some small concert venue.

“I attended this show recently. Your concertos were divine. Just the sort of thing we’ve been searching for, right Gilbert?” he said, motioning the second man forward. George prayed this one wouldn't trip over his own feet and rip the scores off the wall.

“Absolutely, Monsieur. We were hoping to speak with you about composing some chamber music for a ball we are attending. Fine music is always in dire need.” He beamed, the rosiness in his cheeks putting rouge to shame. This must be the Marquis de Lafayette, his given name confirming what his ungainly balance could not. George felt a pang of embarrassment at the state of his study. This place was well below their station.

“Your compliments are too kind, Sirs. Please, browse, and if you see anything of interest, it can be played for you.”

The fortunate thing about high society is that its members are musically literate. George need not sift through every sheet with them as they list their needs. Their eyes flit over the pages just as quick as if they were reading Socrates, hungrily searching for something to wet their lavish appetites.

Another clatter of horse and carriage draws their eyes away from the page. Hamilton throws a quick look over his shoulder, towards the door.

“That’ll be Benjamin. Late, yet again. What unpleasant soul accosted him this time to make him miss our appointment.” He said, his tone biting. Lafayette smiled sweetly at this hint of jealousy.

“He has a soft heart, dear Alex. He cannot see despair and not act on it.”

“Then all of Paris will act on his purse strings.”

George frowned at the page below him. Hamilton’s tone was the reason he avoided high society, or rather, silently appreciated that they had not noticed him. Still, if this newcomer was in their company, maybe there were some elites with decent manners.

“Oh, Monsieur Washington! We have one more man here to see your work. Our dear friend, Benjamin Tallmadge.”

George lifted his eyes, and then soon after, his whole body until he stood perfectly straight. Before him was not a man; no, no...it was a _vision_.

Slender and tall, with dazzling blue eyes that danced in the sunlight. Whatever wasn't caught in his eyes was soaked into the honey blonde hair, pulled back neatly with a ribbon. His lips were pressed into a perfect smile, pinked and plump, as were his cheeks. George felt the air leave his lungs, his heart pounding double time to keep him on his feet. And then he _spoke_ to him.

“Monsieur Washington, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am quite fond of your music. I hope I have not offended you with my lateness.”

His voice fell on his ears like flutes, soft and airy, the sound fluttering like butterflies in his mind. Butterflies that would be stomped out by the thudding of his heart, if they were not careful. George struggled to find his voice.

“The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Tallmadge. Your lateness would only be an offense if you had missed the downbeat.” He said, his smile just a tad crooked as he tried to joke.

Ben laughed, sweet music to his ears. “Then let us be thankful I do not play in your ensemble.” Hamilton rolled his eyes, thumbing through a collection of quintets.

“Benjamin, you're missing all the fun. Come take a look around before this ball becomes an ode to Gilbert’s narrow tastes.”

With a dip of his head, Ben drifted to the pages lining the walls of his study. George watched as his eyes danced across the page, the music unfurling inside his mind, away from where George could hear it. The smile on his lips, however, gave him great comfort. This stunning young man greatly enjoyed what he saw.

“It’s divine, Monsieur. The asymmetrical melodies...your progression. It's _passionate_. Almost sinfully so.”

Pride swelled in his chest. Within moments Ben had dissected him, his work, and he felt so alive...so _grateful_ for it. He stepped closer, admiring the way Ben’s lips moved subconsciously as he counted out the measures. They pursed and parted faintly, beckoning the notes off the page.

“Do you like what you see, Monsieur Tallmadge?”

Ben turned his gaze up at George, eyes just as soft and hazy as the voice he had used to ask his question. A breathless response escaped those pink lips.

“I _love_ it”

It felt as though the air between them had caught fire. Maybe it was the gentle curve of his cheek, or the elegant length of his neck. Perhaps it was years of rejection and self imposed isolation. Ultimately, it was that no one had ever told him that his work was loved. The bits and pieces of himself he had offered up to Paris had been ground beneath its heel. Not prim, not refined. Too wild and passionate. Reckless abandon in harmonies that stirred audiences in the most uncouth ways. And yet here was Benjamin, soft at heart, offering up a piece of it back to him. It moved this young man, born a polished pearl, to speak with the same unabashed fervor he had so diligently put to music.

And it consumed him.

“You _love_ \---”

“Dear Benjamin, perhaps you could be of assistance here? Gilbert has the mind to make every piece a waltz.”

“It is a _ball_ , no? Would you rather our guests stand idly on their feet all evening?”

“Better to be still, than to be dizzy.”

Ben smiled, interjecting into their quarrel. “Dizzy and _elated_. No higher spirits than when it feels as though your feet can't touch solid ground. I second Gilbert’s choice.”

Hamilton pulled out two more scores, adding them to the growing pile in Gilbert’s slender arms. “Then I shall have the common sense to slow things down. Lord knows the ladies are laced up so tight that a particularly enthused conductor could make half the court faint on their heels.”

“Ah yes, who can forget.” Gilbert chuckled fondly, the memory shared between the three young men, far from anything George would ever experience. He shifted awkwardly on his feet until Hamilton finally glanced up.

“Monsieur Washington, we have seen plenty. Would you be so kind as to make copies of these. Perhaps ready by next week for our musicians?”

George weighed the pile in his hand. “That won't be a problem. Please just list the size of your ensemble, and which instruments they play. I will transpose accordingly.”

“Excellent. Benjamin will be visiting next week to pick them up. And this time he will be _on time_.” Hamilton said, throwing a glance at Ben, before continuing. “And all payment will be settled. Good day to you.”

“And to you. Thank you, Sirs.”

Hamilton had headed for the door, with Lafayette hanging off his arm, when he turned--forgetting a member of his party.

“ _Benjamin_.”

Ben had returned to the pieces of his symphony on the wall, eyes wide with childlike curiosity, slender fingers clasping the fabric of the coat over his heart. George imagined he was protecting some tender flame, only small embers that needed to be kindled. That leaving here would smother it, as the rigid structure of high society was prompt to do. Could he _feel_ it? The pieces he is so desperately trying to spark within himself, already roaring inside George. And if he could transfer that heat to his heart, he would torch Ben’s entire being.

“ _Benjamin_. Monsieur Washington is a busy man. Let us not distract the maestro from his work.”

Ben broke his gaze, the flame slowing to only a glowing ember. George was tempted to take it from him, and keep it safe. Those blue eyes looked up at him once more.

“I look forward to our meeting next week.”

“As do I… perhaps I can play you this piece you're so fond of.”

And there it was. Something so powerful and raw behind those deep eyes. It burned hot, and blue, searing into George. Innocent curiosity that set his world aflame. His heart took off in staccato bursts in his ears, wildly thundering beyond his control. It crescendoed the longer Ben held him captive with that stare. George barely heard Hamilton call a third time, but Ben had.

“Goodbye, Monsieur. I shall be prompt next week.” He said, turning on his heel to chase his companions out the door. Golden sunlight haloed around him as he spared one last glance into the dingy study. George was stuck in his sights.

“Come anytime, Monsieur Tallmadge.”

And with a gentle smile, he was gone. Ushered into a waiting carriage and carted off to some frivolous prior affair, to be surrounded by illustrious company. _Rich_ company. George felt a flash of envy. Was his beauty appreciated at court? Or was Ben washed out amongst the ornate gilded ballrooms, skirting the edge of the dance floor in an attempt to find something other than haughty gossip.

George’s legs finally returned to him, feeling weak and knobby. He sank back into his chair, hands twitching. He picked up his pen, and began to compose.  
\----------------------------------------------  
The week that stretched between their meetings seemed endless, time growing ever thinner like the syrupy threads of poured honey; slow, torturous. That is not to say George did not see Ben. No, each night he was visited by the thought of him. That slender frame hovering in the doorway of his bedchamber. Those eyes peering over his shoulder as he worked. Long, delicate fingers urging his hand to keep writing. Ben took his time with him, fully captivating his body and soul, until all waking thoughts were of him and him alone.

Laying awake in bed, pressed hard against a pillow, he saw Ben entering his chambers. Prim and proper, as dressed by his keepers, he would perch on the edge of the bed and keep watch. As the night grew deep, George would coax him closer. First with music, hummed softly. Then with a hand, outstretched in the hopes his pale hand would take it. He would pull Ben close, his voice a rumble against his neck, until those shoulders slacked and the jacket eased off under his palms.

George would savor the heat on those pink cheeks beneath his lips, gingerly unpinning all the fine garments Ben had been wrapped in, bringing forth hot uneven breaths. Blushing like a rose, laid out like a maid on her wedding night, George would descend upon him, sweet chaste kisses making way to heavier, hotter ministrations. He would press against Ben, his cock thick and heavy between them. Diligently shoo away shy hands, and kiss away Ben’s modesty. He would succumb so nicely; the facade of a virtuous society darling eroding until George was cock deep in him, the two of them in the throes of passion, Ben screaming his praises.

It always finished the same, with Ben splayed loosely on the bed beneath him, hair fanned in a golden halo on the pillow, a look of divine ecstasy gracing his features. A look only _he_ could give him, that only his music could spark in this little gem. And George would do anything he asked; anything at all. Anything for the young man who had ensnared his very soul in those deep blue eyes.  
\----------------------------------------------  
When Benjamin did return to George’s study, it was right on time. His carriage rattled to a stop, and it took all of George’s might to refrain from rushing to meet him at the door. The first glimpse of him brought a rush of excitement. He was done up in light grey, and was anything but drab. His smile alone sunnied the dullest of colors. He looked neat, and proper; all the more like the visions that entered his chambers every night.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Washington. It's an honor to meet with you again.” He chirped, stepping lightly across the threshold. George smiled gently, guiding him to his desk, where a neatly wrapped parcel lay.

“A very fine afternoon to you as well, Monsieur Tallmadge. I hope you’ll send my gratitude to Monsieur Hamilton and the Marquis for their interest in my work. Their request has filled many a lonely hour, and has given me some respite from the rather unfavorable reviews of the Paris critics.”

Ben hummed sympathetically. “I have read many a review of your work, Monsieur, and I fear they do not understand it. What is an artist to do when self expression does not fit into the neat little parameters they have set? It destroys them to see a man so unabashedly lay his desires in his work.” His eyes drifted towards the symphony on the wall, his feet leading him towards the drying pages.

“And I see desire now more than ever, dear Sir. Have you composed more since we last met?”

George flushed, hurrying over to Ben’s side. “I have. Only small threads of a larger picture, far from finished.”

Those lips moved silently as they once more mouthed the melody scrawled across the page. Benjamin was putting it all together, his clever mind tactfully following the thread of an idea that was strewn through the piece.

“An _idée fixe._ ” He whispered, almost to himself. “Something...some _one_ has taken your thoughts captive.”

George felt exposed, his true intentions for Ben scrawled all over the walls. All the wanton moans, all the soft words, laid bare on the page inches from his nose. “You are very perceptive. Indeed there has been something on my mind, something new that has sparked my desires, and controls my every fantasy.” He had not heard how eager and lusty the words had sounded, not until they echoed back in his ears.

“Your every fantas-- _oh”_ Ben’s lashes lowered, shyness overtaking him. Did he not know the depraved things that shield of innocence did to him? The hot tangle of limbs from his dreams flashes before his eyes; the fervorous after to this chaste before. Cheeks pinkened, Ben wrung his hands together in front of.

“Might I be so...forward...as to write you, Monsieur Washington? I do not wish to make myself look like a fool at your feet, but your work is captivating. To write to you, to _know_ you, would be humbling.” He said all this, pink as a peony, with eyes nervously fluttering to and from George beneath those long lashes. George was all but floored.

“If you mean to _embarrass_ me, Monsieur Tallmadge, you've succeeded--”

“Embarrass, no! No, sir, I meant it with the utmost respect.”

George felt the spark of that little flame flickering within Ben, small and eager to grow, waiting for something to fan it. He stepped closer, noting the way Ben’s chest was rising and falling beneath his shirts. He was flustered, nervous, shy...so very beautiful. George spoke gently, as if talking to a lover.

“Forgive me. It's not often someone shows interest in me, except to mock me. I would gladly write you, though my lonely hours here don't make for an eventful letter. All I can offer you are my thoughts, my...desires, musically or otherwise. I ask you not to toy with me, Monsieur. I am no longer young, and my heart is a fragile thing. Too much kindness, or a lack thereof, could be the death of me.”

Ben stared up at him in breathless awe, lips parted as if to protest _something_. To say he would never toy with him, that cruelness wasn't in his nature. To say that George’s thoughts, and desires, are more than he could ever hope to share in these letters. Yet the intimate timbre of George’s voice silenced him; his years of refined dignity, of subtle tokens of admiration, shattered by the plain way George laid out his heart. Instead, he fumbled gracelessly to retrieved a paper from his pocket. He pressed it into George’s palm.

“I would be honored to receive _any_ letter from you, Monsieur Washington.” He blathered, quickly trying to turn on his heel and flee the scene. George gripped his hand, stopping him.

“Your _music_ , Monsieur Tallmadge.”

Ben turned red. “ _Yes_! Yes, I am sorry.” He somehow collected his tongue enough to explain payment, and left his coin on the desk. George coolly gave him some instruction to pass to the musicians, if only to keep Ben with him a moment longer.

He kept his hand on Ben’s wrist, though the man wasn't tugging away. He leaned instinctively into his grasp, slender fingers twitching as if to decide whether or not to clasp around his wrist in return. George brushed his thumb over the sensitive inner wrist, the pulse throbbing beneath his touch. Growing embers, soon to consume him, if judging by the tint on Ben’s cheeks.

“I am afraid there is no more left to say” George said, releasing his hold on Ben. “You have everything you need for your affair. And do send my regards to Monsieur Hamilton and the Marquis. Their patronage is much appreciated.”

Ben nodded, hands back to being clasped in front of him, though he looked unsure of what to do with them. “They will be very pleased. Your work brings them great joy.” George felt a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“And to you, Monsieur Tallmadge?”

That fine blush had returned, to George’s pleasure. The brief thought of easing up on the man crossed his mind, though the sight was too delicious.

“It's...it’s…” Speechless. Ben struggled to speak, his eyes lowered as he searched the floorboards for the right words. George shouldn't derive so much pleasure from this, but the poor thing was _trembling_. It's a sight he had seen before, from red faced critics who were ushering their high born wives from his concert, raving about the lewdness in his composition. _Arousal_. George leaned close, stooping down so his lips hovered close to the top of Ben’s brow.

“ _Yes_?”

“ _Divine_! Truly divine, Monsieur.” He blurted. George smiled, knowing Ben would find some more refined compliment than the one he had hoped for. He straightened up again, and patted his breast pocket, where Ben’s address had been stored.

“Then we shall be in touch, Monsieur.”

Ben cradled the parcel in his arms, keeping it close to his chest. “We shall. I will tell Alex and Gilbert of your kind generosity today. Good day, Monsieur Washington.”

And with that, he turned and left the shop, once more out the door and into the waiting carriage, spirited away to some glamorous affair. George retreated back to his private quarters, needing a few moments to recover. He sat perched on the bed, the same spot Ben’s phantom occupied each night, and closed his eyes.

In his mind’s eye he could see Ben settled in his carriage, the sheet music safe in his lap, but not safe from those slender fingers and perceptive eyes. Yes, he would be thumbing through them eagerly, maybe a bit sad he forgot his courage; forgot that George had offered to play for him. He sighed, hands stroking the bedsheets as if groping for Ben’s hand.

He guessed...maybe it was time to start that letter.

 

 


	2. The Ball

George’s first reply from Ben came quickly, much to his delight. It was a kind response to a stiff introductory letter, where George thanked him for his visit, and reminded him about playing for him.

_Dear Monsieur Washington,  
It was my greatest regret to leave without hearing you play. Even now I sit with your pieces at the pianoforte, trying diligently to tap out the beautiful things I hear in my mind. My fingers are clumsy, however, and lack the grace needed to bring it to life. I curse myself for not staying a moment longer, to enjoy both your company and your talent._

George smiled, and pressed the letter to his chest, the scene playing in his mind. Poor Benjamin and his missed opportunity. He could see him hunched over the pianoforte, brows close together in concentration, the few threads of a melody marred by the dissonance of a sour note. He responded with a brief letter, offering Ben the chance to return for a private performance. It was unfortunately turned down, his schedule too full for even an hour’s delay.

George did not let it discourage him, and instead enjoyed the ramblings of a society darling’s days on the town. The lunches, the splendor, the airy conversation. It seems Hamilton had talked up the music for the ball, drawing a wider array of guests than previously intended. Hamilton seemed to do the talking for the three of them. Though George had initially disliked Hamilton’s demeanor, Ben painted a much more flattering image of the man; someone who was smart, clever to turn a phrase, and a fantastic story teller. He was held in high regards.

The Marquis de Lafayette also made an appearance in their correspondence, stumbling onto the page just as awkwardly as he does in person. Ben described him as an impossibly likeable fellow, who has the face of a lord and the grace of his fool. George chuckled at that. Lafayette seemed to be drawing in quite the crowd as well, and with the party still a few weeks away Ben was concerned they'd be turning down invitations.

_Dearest Monsieur Tallmadge,  
It delights me to hear about the illustrious company you keep. I can see how very loved they are, and how lucky they must be to have you close to their heart. From what you tell me, this ball will be the envy of any thrown in Paris, if not for its glittering guests, than for the chance to hear you speak so fondly of your friends in person. While you have been busy with your committee, I have been scratching away at this symphony. It has consumed all of my waking hours, burning the wick of my patience low as I stumble through the darkness in the hopes of completing it. I fear it will swallow me whole._

George was not lying when he said that all he had to share were his thoughts. He wrote openly, confiding in Ben as he would a journal; and eagerly, Ben responded.

_Dear Monsieur Washington,  
I have complete faith that you will find light in the darkness, no matter how low the wick burns. God does not squander gifts, and he has bestowed many on you. The threads of your symphony hang loose now, but soon you will nimbly weave them close, leaving us a heavenly tapestry that would make even angels wish they could descend and gaze upon it more closely._

George closed his eyes, those words pushing him back into the pillows. How he wished Ben were here, where he could whisper those sweet praises closer. Admire that bloom of pink on his cheeks as he tried so desperately to express his desires. Wrapped only in the bedsheets, George would take Ben onto his lap, and let him see just how many gifts God had bestowed upon him. See Ben gasp as he ran his hands over the threadbare cotton, pulling it back to take all of George in.

His next letter was clouded by those thoughts.

_Dearest Monsieur Tallmadge,  
Your words have not gone unnoticed, though you must forgive me for speaking so boldly. Your kindness has been a beacon in the otherwise grim procession that has been my life. You claim that angels would clamber down from the heavens upon my work’s completion, yet have overlooked the fact that one had stepped into my shoppe not a few weeks ago, and brought life to a bleakly stagnant composition. I had warned you not to fan the flames of my affection, that I am old, and fragile at heart. I ask no more from you than to call you by your given name, so that I may call you friend, and keep you close to my heart---as I keep your praises._

He signed this letter “ _George_ ”, offering his name up along with his admiration. The letter was raw, throwing out the tedious pleasantries George had initially planned to write. He could not _wait_ that long. He was impatient, brash, _passionate_. That was what sparked Ben, wasn't it? _Passion_. And if this letter could draw out the same in him, break the mild mannered shell he had been encased in, it would be worth it. George wanted it all; to break him, taste him, by God love him. More than anything he wanted to be loved back.

Days passed with no response, and George began to fear he had chased the goodness from his life. One foul letter, stinking of lust and desperation, had sullied their wonderful exchange. He cursed himself for not having the common sense to _touch himself_ before penning that letter, and stuffing it in the envelope where it sailed to the post without being looked over by a more sober eye. Ben was probably appalled. This silence was his good way of turning George down, rather than face the humiliation of writing him back and acknowledging his burgeoning feelings.

Yet to George’s surprise, a letter _did_ arrive. He held it to his nose, catching whiff of some flowery perfume. It flooded his senses, and the image of Ben splayed out on his bed seared behind his eyelids. He hurried to his bedroom and tore it open greedily.

_Dearest George,  
Do not mistake my silence for disinterest, for you see, I have been a most embarrassing coward. Upon receiving your letter, I could not read it through without feeling faint. You spoke of angels and affection in ways I have never been subjected to. It was as if your words had laid me bare, and I was so scared to be seen by you. I am ashamed to say I hid your letter, perhaps with the intentions of forgetting it. Yet I could not. I lay awake at night with your words on my tongue, and your passion in my heart. If you can forgive my foolishness, and let me back into your good graces, I would be at your feet to hear you call me friend--- where you can keep me as close as you want, heart and praises alike._

_Your Benjamin_

George moaned, his hand already working his cock, which had been thickening since Ben had confessed how utterly shy he had been. It was so _good_. Precious Ben, who lay awake at night in his lavish bed, with his words to keep him warm. Not just warm, _hot_. Dense heat that led those slender hands to pull up the hem of his nightshirt, and pleasure himself to the thought of returning his favor. That angelic face twisted with carnal desire, stroking himself until he came in ribbons, moaning deep into his pillow. Hot shame at the mess he had made. Burning desire to do it all again; over and over until every fantasy had been played twice over.

His hand worked quicker, the words on the page already committed to memory, where George would read them behind lowered lids for all eternity. “ _Your Benjamin”._ His hips bucked. _His_ Benjamin. His to hold close, as Ben had put it, as close as he wanted. Oh, did he _want it_ , to be so close that the hot sticky heat between them fused their flesh, so that one body was almost indiscernible from the next. To _absorb_ Ben; his mind, his heart, his entire being into himself where he could protect it. How could he not protect this tender flame, as its embers spark into a roar at his feet.

George came with a strangled groan, his release spilling into his palm, save for a few spurts that made it to the perfumed page in his hand. It would serve as a surrogate for now. A thin little place holder until Ben was here at his feet. On his knees and oh so ready to give in to his every fantasy. And George would indulge him. He would do anything for him.

Their letters became more intimate, quickly abandoning most of the day to day gossip to pen their thoughts and desires. George would take them to his room, and imagine that Ben was seated in his lap, speaking to him fondly. The sweetest sentiments would be whispered up to him, from lips pressed under his jaw. And George would sigh, undo the ribbons in Ben’s golden hair, and take him. Reward him for doing so well, for opening up his heart to him. Tucked underneath him, panting, Ben looked ethereal. George contemplated writing this to him, but feared the image would send Ben into another spiral, and he could not bear to have their letters delayed once more.

_My Dearest Benjamin,  
There is little ink and paper can do to convey my every thought and desire. My letters cannot caress your cheek, or run through your fine hair. It cannot draw you close to listen to your heartbeat. I have only my imagination to fill in the wonderful details of your affection. How you sigh when you read, how you blush...how soft you must feel beneath warm fingers. I pray you take pity on me, for I have been ensnared by you completely. Each day I am broken more and more by the absence of your touch. Eventually, I will turn to dust._

_Your George_

It was forward, but George took the risk. Their intimate friendship had been creeping into deeper territory, and he would rather cross the threshold now, than to misstep in a future letter by assuming. This time he did not have to wait. A letter arrived promptly to his shoppe... _two letters,_ actually. The first was penned on the same stationary Ben always used, with his fine handwriting across the envelope. The second was stiff, on much finer paper than his personal stash. It was still Ben’s handwriting, but it was tight and small across the envelope’s surface. George ripped open the personal letter.

_Dearest George,  
For all you have missed in my absence, I have missed tenfold. In our brief meetings, I was too shy to look upon you, and missed all the lovely details of your person. Take this as my way of ensuring you do not suffer as I have._

_I sigh a great deal with your letters in my hand. Soft, panting sighs that push past the point of breathlessness upon reading your words. A display which forces me to read your letters in my own private quarters, where I can be alone with my thoughts and your desires. I'm embarrassed to admit that I flush easily, and that my face turns dreadfully rosy whenever I recall what we've discussed. There is a deep shade of pink on my cheeks dedicated to you,dear George, and I enjoy it often._

_As for touch, I am much too shy to delve deeply into the ways I've thought of you. Just know this; that I am warm, in ways I imagine you’d find most intriguing. And that warmth in your presence would spike to a fever pitch, dearest George. Under your fingertips I would be melting. But I must tear myself from this letter...lest my modesty catch up to me and I toss it into the fire. Please, if you wish to see my adoration for yourself, consider opening the second letter. I hope you will say “Yes”_

_Your Benjamin_

  
As tempting as it was to stop there, George moved to open the second letter-- his aching cock would have to wait. The letter inside was a single card, stiff ivory paper with a detailed border. It read:

_M.George Washington,  
You have been cordially invited to attend the Peony Ball. It would be the greatest honor to have the composer of our chamber orchestra’s pieces to be in attendance, and give our guests insight into your wonderful music._

George looked over the details on the back of the card. It was at the Marquis’ private estate outside Paris, in a little less than a week. His heart pounded, cock pressing hard against the seam of his pants. Ben _wanted_ him. And amongst all the splendor of this ball, the two of them could slip away amongst the luxurious empty rooms. Ben was eager to show him his adoration, and George was eager to accept. He longed to feel that pale skin turn a deep red beneath his fingertips, and feel the fires they had been stoking burn Ben up.

Heat gathered in his gut, thinking of how the muffled distant sound of his music would feel when accompanied by the wanton moans of his young partner. How deliciously sweet it would be to hear those sighs rise and contort, until they were screams, and Ben had nothing left to hide behind. He would be _raw_ beneath him.

George scrambled to write a response, a clear and enthusiastic “ _Yes_ ”. It was all he could do to shove the letter into the post before collapsing, his aching need still waiting to be taken care of. But lots of things would be taken care of soon; eagerly, hungrily...so very very soon.  
\----------------------------------------------  
The fated evening had arrived, and George had been sent a carriage. It bumped along the cobblestone streets, jostling the contents of his stomach uneasily. Outside the carriage the bleak city began to crumble, becoming sparser and sparser until it was overtaken by lush green hills. They rolled like emerald waves, swelling large enough to blot out Paris on the horizon.

Twilight descended, bringing with it a dusky purple sky, the strongest stars already out to play. The manor was sprawling, with warm light pouring out of every window, casting long shadows onto the property. Truthfully, there was not enough light to illuminate all of the Marquis’ land, as it extended up into the hills. His carriage shuddered to a halt, opened up by an attendant.

“Monsieur Washington?”

“...Yes.”

“Right this way, Monsieur. The hosts have been expecting you.”

George hurriedly checked his pocket watch. He was well within the acceptable time frame to attend a party. Not fashionably late, for that required both a keen wardrobe and confidence. He was just in time, where the first round of guests were plied with wine, and the bigger names had yet to arrive.

Some familiar concerto of his floated through the open doors of the manor, mingling delicately with the guests, all dressed finely. George felt a bit drabby in his clothes; pitch black concert attire that had seen better days, threadbare and fraying at the ends. The crowd parted before him, lazy waves of tipsy socialites leaving hushed comments in his wake.

“Monsieur Hamilton, your guest has arrived”

Hamilton appeared from the crowd, as if by magic. Swathed in deep green silk, he shimmered under the light of the candles. “Monsieur Washington, so glad you could make the journey. Gilbert is here somewhere--”

“Yes, I am!” Came a voice, just a few persons over. Lafayette tore himself from the company of a gaggle of ladies. “I will be right back, darlings, the _maestro_ is here” He looked just as radiant as Hamilton, pink cheeks played up by the lavender silk jacket he wore. They crowded close to him, speaking rapidly.

“Was your trip enjoyable?”

“Tell me, what do you think?”

“So sorry we hadn't thought to invite you sooner---”

“We needed to expand! And then you were our first thought”

“Yes, yes, and music is marvelous! We’ve gotten many compliments!”

“ _So_ many! And many young ladies waiting to meet you---”

“ _Gentlemen_.”

Hamilton and Lafayette stopped their babbling, turning to look over their shoulders. George followed their gaze, breath catching in his chest.

Ben, all done up in blue and gold. He was a gilded angel, sweet and innocent, with all the regality of a king. George let out a shuddered breath at the sight, and observed what Ben has designated as _his personal shade_ of pink tinting those cheeks.

“You're crowding Monsieur Washington. I'm sure he can answer all your questions, but please, _one by one_ ”

Lafayette waved the comment off with a gloved hand. “Sweet Benjamin, darling Benjamin, you know we have no restraint! The night is short, and we’ve much to do!”

George’s nerves buzzed at the thought; much to do indeed. He looked Ben up and down, admiring just how incredible he looked. Then he looked again, this time imagining him wearing much less. Ben noticed his attention, and averted his eyes.

Hamilton sighed, linking arms with Lafayette, their silk jackets swishing. “Come then, Gilbert. Let us find some company more our speed.” He said, dragging the man off into the crowd. Breathy laughter followed them, signaling that the Marquis had probably tripped over himself once more.

Ben smiled sweetly. “I'd get used to it, Monsieur, the crowd tonight is hungry for entertainment. New people to pick apart.” For a brief moment, George felt afraid. It was one thing to loom over Ben in his shop, the two of them alone with his work, but here Ben was in his element. There was pressure to perform in ways George had not prepared for. There was no rehearsal for hungry socialites. There was only tittering laughter, and the bones they left behind.

He followed Ben through the crowd, having to stop every few steps to greet some new face. He knew them all; their names, their sons and daughters, their secrets...though Ben was much too noble to share the gossip. Those lips sealed secrets, untold amounts, their own included.

Another finely dressed young man grabbed Ben by the shoulders, drawing forth a cry of surprise. “ _Benjamin Tallmadge!_ You look delicious.”

“Laurens!” He embraced the man, tightly and with great excitement. George felt the bitter sting of jealousy rising like bile in his throat. “Does Alex know you’ve returned?”

Laurens grinned sheepishly, his freckled face glowing. “Actually, I snuck in. _Shh shh_ don't tell him, I want to surprise him myself. Make up for lost time.” His eyes travelled upward to George, who stood awkwardly as the two reunited.

“And who is _this_?”

Ben’s lips curved into a delightful little smile, and he beamed up at George fondly. “Monsieur George Washington, the very talented musician who wrote the pieces we’re using tonight.” George blushed, not used to the attention. Laurens extended a hand towards him.

“John Laurens, close friend of the parentless prodigies here.” He shook George’s hand, and Ben let out a little huff. George withdrew, confused.

“George Washington...forgive me…parentless prodigies?”

Laurens let out a small “ _oh_ ”, and threw Ben a sorry look. “My mistake, Monsieur, you are not familiar with this crowd. Our dear Benjamin, along with Hamilton and Lafayette, are a founded family of sorts. All orphaned, and left to their own devices. Though explaining it to you now, I see how the pet name is cruel.”

It was George’s turn to let out a small “ _oh_ ”. It made sense why Ben held Hamilton and Lafayette in such high regards, and he couldn't ignore the slightly hurt look in the young man’s eyes. It seems even Ben was on the menu tonight, though George found it a miracle that after years amongst high society there was still meat on the carcass to pick.

“Well then, I shall keep in the shadows until I find Alex. Hopefully no one recognizes me”

Ben’s smile returned, skillfully slipped on like a mask. It would have been authentic, if not for the dullness of his eyes. “Yes then. I shall keep this to myself. Best of luck, Laurens. So glad you are home.”

George was seething. Two minutes, and the light was sucked from his Benjamin’s eyes, trampled beneath shoes that had never touched anything outside the pavement to a carriage. “How dreadfully _awful_.” He spat, thinking little about how it passed his lips. His anger was soon forgotten as the feather light brush of fingertips touched his hand.

“Leave him. He does not mean it.”

Those big blue eyes peered up at him, slowly returning to their exuberant clarity as they lingered over his face. “I am so grateful you came tonight, Monsieur.”

George’s heart raced. God how he wanted this man. If he could have his way, he would drag him off the dance floor, embrace him somewhere away from people like Laurens. Kiss those pink lips, which even now were parted perfectly as if to coax him to slant his mouth over them and give in. Trail down that elegant neck and bite into it, savoring the cry beneath his teeth.

Ben must have seen it in his eyes, for he turned a deep pink, eyes lowering once more away from George’s lustful stare. Their moment was pierced abruptly.

“Oh, Benjamin! We’ve been searching for you!” It was Lafayette, looking a little more graceful now that he was tipsy. George smiled subtly, wondering if his newfound balance was from drunken confidence or inebriated counteraction. Behind him trailed a small crowd; a few older women, one man who looked dreadfully skinny, and a plump man who seemed more interested in his glass than the conversation he was loosely involved in.

“Here you are hogging Monsieur Washington all to yourself, when we have guests who are most interested in meeting him.”

George balked, but politely made rounds of introductions to the crowd. It was tedious, and nerve wracking. No sooner did he explain why he thought of using a certain chord progression, another question would fire off, and he’d be stuck thinking of a more inspirational story of its conception. What was he supposed to do? Tell them that most of these pieces are written in his shop, in near darkness? Thank God for the wine, which was pressed into his hand by the glassful, quicker than he could swallow them.

Sometime during this interrogation Ben had been spirited away by another guest. He lost him at first, but being a good head and a half taller than most of the patrons, George was able to spy that telltale flash of blue and gold. It flitted back and forth across the room, sometimes leaning precariously with a drink in hand, other times twirling on the dance floor. His eyes followed Ben as he gently spun around the dance floor, glittering like a jewel even amongst the most heavily adorned guests.

The crowd before him broke apart as one of his more spirited waltzes filled the air. George smiled and nodded as the guests departed to, in their words, “have a lively and informative spin around”.  
He finished the last of his wine, which was becoming tasteless the more he used it as a social lubricant. Even with the warm tingle it gave him, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Too tall, garishly underdressed, unable to swap out his expression for one less sallow.

He edged his way to the center of the room, where a ring of patrons gathered to watch the dancers. Society women, all done up in their finest, shifted coyly in an attempt to attract a dance partner. Drunken men leaned on one another, laughing at any friend of theirs who insisted they were sober enough for a spin.

A handful stood close to admire the hosts, keen eyes watching as Hamilton and Lafayette clumsily danced together for their entertainment. It was like musical roulette; they would sway passionately, and Lafayette would inevitably stumble. Whatever lucky lady the Marquis almost knocked over would be treated to a few choice words from Hamilton, which from what George could see, were probably very flattering.

And then there was that blue and gold whirl, making its way across the edge of the circle with delicate precision, like a seamstress embroidering on a fine bolt of silk. It threaded in and out, gracefully turning in time to avoid colliding with the other dancers. George felt suspended in a dreamlike haze as it passed him, the colors finally slowing enough for him to see Ben’s face. He was elated; eyes sparkling, lips plumped and turned up into a confident smile, shoulders straight and perfect. Even his hair shone like gold, with a runaway curl falling out of its neat queue, where it swayed to and fro with his movements. George was helpless, unable to pry his eyes away.

Ben’s dance partner said a few words, and broke their routine to leave the floor. George shifted nervously as Ben turned his attention towards him, making his way back through the crowd.

“You're a popular man tonight, Monsieur Washington! I've had no less than six dance partners compliment your company. They find you and your music striking.” He said, a bit breathless from his romp around. George took a moment to admire the healthy glow about him.

“You flatter me, but I'm quite certain it is _your company_ they find striking. You dance marvelously.”

Ben stepped forward, bowing his head to accept the compliment. When he lifted his face he looked...well George couldn't really pinpoint it. There was desire, and fear; a look of warm familiarity mixed with hesitancy. George’s heart rate spiked. _Could it be?_ Would this be where they trail away, arms linked and hearts intertwined, to enjoy each other’s company somewhere more _private_?

He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as his long fingers looped around George’s wrist. He was on fire, and it seared the skin like a brand. All breath left him as Ben pulled him closer, their chests almost touching. It was as if the whole world slowed, the flickering candlelight dripping like honey, trapping them in this sinfully sweet moment. George’s ears rang with the rich sound of a lone clarinet, crooning a love song it had been playing for years, only now he heard it returned-- a duet; one where he and Ben were in harmony.

“Dance with me?”

The words were barely a whisper, carried only by the last lingering notes of their duet. George’s feet were frozen in place, though he desperately wanted to move. Ben gazed up at him from beneath the those sooty lashes, soft and hazy with candlelight. His lips moved slowly, voice even softer so that only the two of them could hear it. A tiny, breathless sigh.

“ _George_ ”

And just like that they were in motion, possessed by the moment and the uptick in tempo. The lively waltz had returned, with great swells that thundered like two hearts racing. George’s feet hardly kept up with his pulse as he twirled Ben out, and used the momentum to pull him even closer. What started off as sweeping and romantic mounted until it was a frantically giddy whirl of strings, with Ben held tight in George’s arms as they twirled effortlessly. He couldn't have told you he was on solid ground, for it felt as though the marble beneath his soles had dissolved, and he was kicking up clouds beneath his feet.

And Benjamin, his sweet Benjamin, leaning into him as they spun, was starting to lose control--as was George. Their turns became loose and wild, retreating back into each other’s warm embrace eagerly. A look of divine adoration graced Ben’s features, his visage the perfect portrait of heaven itself. Maybe that's why George breaks. Why all of a sudden he can no longer control himself, and all that desire, the weeks of sleeping with perfumed letters under his pillow, catches up to him. He can't _wait_ any longer. He needs Ben. The waltz he wrote snags the last thread of his restraint, firmly tugging it free as the dance reaches a tumultuous climax, and it breaks him. George firmly grasps Ben around the waist, one hand seizing the back of his head, and kisses him---rough and crushing.

The music stops.

Something _shatters_.

_Something’s gone wrong._

George pulls back from Ben. The adoration has drained from his face, leaving only a blanched look of horror. He’s mortified. Shocked gasps ring from the circle around them. George becomes increasingly aware of the situation, him pressed lewdly against Ben in the center of the dance floor as onlookers start to murmur and laugh behind their hands. Ben’s eyes are full of fear.

“ _Benjamin_ ”

A hand forces its way between them, pushing against George’s chest with such force that it knocks him back a few steps, distancing himself from Ben.

“How _dare you_!” A voice boomed below him. George’s head was spinning, struggling to comprehend the situation; Hamilton was screaming at him.

“Get this man out of here, _immediately_!”

The room is swaying, the shattering sound starts to line up with the splintered glass scattered at the floor by Hamilton’s feet. He briefly sees the deep red stain of wine spread, creeping ever closer to his feet as Hamilton pushes him further and further from Ben.

More hands arrive, clutching his shoulders roughly. George finds his voice, looking past Hamilton’s jabbing finger in his face to glance at Ben. He was just standing there, pale and trembling. He couldn't be dragged away from him like this.

“Benjamin, _please_! The pasture---just over the hill---meet me tomorrow! My sweet Benjamin, tomorrow!”

“ _George_ …”

Lafayette swooped in, taking Ben under his arm quicker than a mother bird. “Benjamin, come. Do not speak another word to this madman. Quickly, we must get you out.” Tears were forming in Ben’s eyes, the crowd parting to swallow him up as they made their escape.

“Benjamin!”

The men dragged him into the grand foyer, where Hamilton’s righteous fury unleashed its full potential. His finger drove into his chest like a knife, cutting away through layers of muscle and bone to pierce the very fabric of his soul. His eyes burned holes into George, and were his teeth not beared in such an animalistic fashion, George might have marveled at how white they were.

“What demon has possessed you, _sir,_ that you come here by our good graces and assault Benjamin? Hm?”

His heart was in a vice, trapped like a wounded animal. Had Ben not told them of their friendship? Their blossoming feelings?

“I would never assault him, Monsieur Hamilton. Benjamin and I are...we’re...very close. You can ask him yourself, to show you our letters if you need proof---”

“ _Letters_?!” Hamilton spat. He looked horrified, as if replaying some deep set fear over in his mind. His hands shook uncontrollably, balled into fists and ready to strike. When his voice returned it was low, dripping with a venomous stillness that disturbed George deeply.

“I will not pretend to know you. I will not ask how the letters started, or how you managed to get this far. But I will tell you this-- I have seen many men like you. Men who prey on Benjamin’s good nature. They see his face, his kind eyes, and they can't wait to sink their teeth in. They try to _fuck_ him. Try to _take_ him. And Benjamin would gladly hand his heart or his purse over to anyone with a few sad tales. He thinks the world of people who shouldn't have risen farther than a weed.

But I _am not_ Benjamin. I know a vulture when I see one, and you sir, _reek_ of carrion. It turns my stomach to think that you've been writing him, sending your sick depraved desires to him. What would you have him do, hm? Spread his legs? Let you ravish him, and swindle him out of the fortune he was left behind? And who would pick up the pieces once you've shattered his faith?”

Anger rose in George’s chest at the accusation, his tongue ready to strike back. “Benjamin wrote me first. Could it be that you're too blind to see that your little founded family could want something more. That Benjamin could _love_ someone else---”

A searing pain struck George’s cheek, sending sparks through his vision. Hamilton was withdrawing his hand, red faced and furious.

“He does not _love_ you. He doesn't know what love _is_. For ten years Gilbert and I have taken care of him, better than any of our parents could have. Our love is real. It is valid, it is solid, it has kept us _alive_. What you have is not love. It is lust. Filthy, depraved desires that you have manipulated him into thinking is something _more_. And now his reputation has suffered for it. If he somehow manages to live out this humiliation, he will forever be burdened with the memory of a filthy old man who tried to bend him over in front of half of Paris! Have you no _shame_?! _No decency?!”_

Hamilton took a step back, hands furiously taking something out of his pocket.

“You demanded Benjamin meet you tomorrow, yes? In the pasture? Then Benjamin will have the freedom to choose; you or us. And if he doesn't show...if you truly care about him and want him to live a life outside the hideous display you caused tonight...you will _use_ this”

He shoved a vial into George’s hand. _Opium_. George opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off once more by Hamilton.

“Let me be clear; you have no career here anymore. It ended the moment you touched him. Do yourself one honorable thing, in what I can assume has been a miserable life, and _end it.”_

George closed his fist around the vial, shaking with anger. This was an outrage. Not only had Ben been ripped from him, but now he was being openly mocked--and persuaded to suicide. His jaw clenched tight, wondering just how often Hamilton put death in the hands of men who got too close to Ben. He shoved the opium into his pocket, swallowing the urge to knock Hamilton onto his ass.

“ _As you wish_. Please make your peace with Benjamin tonight, Monsieur Hamilton. Tomorrow, when he leaves, I want you to have had a proper farewell. Don't let this bitterness spoil ten wonderful years.”

Hamilton’s face twisted with disgust. George had hit a nerve, a deep one at that. He waited for the young man to lash out, strike him with a heavy hand across his already throbbing cheek--but instead he heard the snap of fingers. Hands descended upon him once more, yanking him back towards the large doors.

“Good riddance to you, Monsieur Washington”

And with one great shove, George was thrown out into the night, landing on hands and knees in the dirt. The doors slammed behind him, faint music and muffled conversation continuing as if he were never there. The music selection had changed, erasing his presence from the ball entirely.

He stood, brushing the dirt off his scraped up hands, the sting rising as red droplets appeared. With night stretching long before him, and no way home, George trudged up the hill into the pasture. Under the pale moonlight it stretched like a inky sea, threatening to swallow him whole. The only solace was a lone tree, a gnarled willow, bobbing in the cool midnight breeze. He sat beneath it, taking in the stars twinkling above him.

Benjamin would come.

He knew he would.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Scene in the Fields

Morning crept silently over the hills, bringing with it a gray and gloomy sky. George roused from his spot beneath the tree, soaked through with morning dew that raised goose pimples on his skin. As dearly as he wished for sunlight and it's comforting warmth, he wished for Benjamin.

He imagined what this morning must be like for him.Ben would wake from his slumber, newfound hope in his eyes as he rubbed the sleep from it. He would gently pad to the window and throw it open, taking in the splendor of the rolling hills, and look for him amongst the dewy green. Those first deep breaths of air would be so new that they were almost painful, filling Ben’s lungs with the fresh smell of earth, and he would feel tempted to fling himself out just to be a part of it.

Over the hill came a herd of sheep, bobbing and swaying as they walked within the safe vision of two shepherds. George smiled, watching them round up their flock, letting them ping to and fro across the green to graze. The older shepherd took long, slow strides, keeping a watchful eye on the lambs trailing beside their mothers. The younger shepherd picked up the pace, wrangling stragglers and adventurous creatures who strayed too far. They called back and forth to one another, trading singsong praises as they spread further out over the field.

How beautiful it would be to live simply, trading his own singsong praises with Ben as the two spread out over his shop. Though his salary was a pittance, his life would be all the richer just in Ben’s company. Those dark nooks and crannies would be drenched in the golden sunlight that seemed to grace his every feature,leaving little golden fingerprints from slender fingers.

A soft mist blew across George’s face, causing him to shiver. How he needed that warmth now. Chilled to the bone, the only thing keeping him still was the flicker of hope in his chest that Ben would appear. He could _see it._ Dressed modestly, but all the more regal, Ben would leave that luxurious manse, hiking up over the hill to him. The heavens would open up, the grey and unforgiving sky relenting, and gold would pour through the cracks. That mess of blonde hair would catch it, absorb it, bring it to him. Ben would fall to his knees before him, soft hands cupping his face and igniting a fire within him. This chill would be a thing of the past. Forgotten.

Life would be _perfect_. Humble; by far more simplistic than anything Ben had experienced before, but George was certain he would be happy. Mornings alone by the piano, evenings alone in bed. Soft gentle sighs in his arms and tinkling notes in his ears. Every sweet dream they had shared in their letters would be true. Every new day a new melody, overarching in the intimate symphony of their life.   
  
The shepherds continued their dance, shuffling in circles around the field in a manner that was almost hypnotic. Minutes became hours, and by midday the sun still had not shown. George rubbed his palms flat on his arms, trying to stir up some warmth beneath the damp shirt. Perhaps Ben was lost. Lafayette’s estate was immense, and the hills surrounding it were endless. In his fervor, he could have taken off in the wrong direction. A few minutes hike over the wrong hill could have set him back considerably. George feared that maybe Ben was convinced that he was no longer waiting for him. The very idea shook him. He could not leave without Ben.

He wouldn't leave _at all_ without Ben.

Yet the delay was beginning to take its toll. The morning had waned, and there was no longer cause to say that Ben had slept in after a heartfelt night of goodbyes. Noon came and went, and George was still accompanied only by the dark rolling of clouds and bleating of sheep. The horizon began to darken, a thick storm of clouds brewing something awful. George tucked his knees to his chest, feeling impossibly small despite his size. _Where on earth was Benjamin?_

The first pang of dread was not in his stomach, but in his pocket. A thick heavy feeling like lead being dropped into the seam. One hand mindlessly groped at the spot, feeling the tiny vial of opium Hamilton had thrown at him. All at once the sound of the duet he had shared with Benjamin split, leaving only lonely, throaty tones in his ears. _Alone_. He was in fact _alone_.

George quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Benjamin _would_ come. The sky could still clear, bright and blue, and show them the way home. His letters would be read aloud as he balanced Ben in his lap, watching him blush as he confessed all his deepest desires. It would be sweet and innocent, provocative in a way only Ben had designed. The letters would be knocked aside, trading words for busy hands, fumbling to disrobe him and make good on all his promises. Soft pliant lips and gentle moans would be their new exchange. No postage required.

A little silver pocket watch became an extension of George’s hand, it's hands ticking away mercilessly. Past the bobbing of the herd there were no new faces emerging over the hill. Mid afternoon had arrived, and so had the dense inky bloom of clouds from the horizon. Dark skies and heavy thoughts descended upon George. The gentle click of the gears in the watch picked at him, each second tearing away more and more of the loving words he had exchanged with Ben. Their touches disappeared. His blush disappeared. The angels no longer waited with baited breath for him.

“ _Your Benjamin”_

It was only by sheer force of will that he took those words back from the greedy hands of time, but it tasted wrong on his tongue. It had turned to ash, no longer the sweet fruit he once knew it as. His Benjamin had not come.

The first tears came.

New visions flooded his mind. Benjamin slumped over the bed in his quarters, hair undone and in knots from tearing at it. His fine suit a wrinkled mess, open and loose as he sobbed into the duvet. Lafayette poised next to him, still as a porcelain doll, cooing soothing words.

“You're _safe_ , dear Benjamin. This will pass.”

Nearby, Hamilton, with his face pinched with anger. All of his letters, his heart and soul, being devoured by those vengeful eyes, and without a second thought tossed into the fire. They curled and disappeared before Ben’s eyes, drawing forth more sobs. Hamilton clicking his tongue, annoyed at the display.

“ _Perversion_.” He would hiss, tossing another to the flames, a smile almost curling as he watched it burn. “You're lucky we caught this, Benjamin. This man would _ruin_ you.”

George had no doubt that as he waited Hamilton had men ransacking his home. His mattress torn to shreds, letters found and delivered back to Hamilton’s hands, warmed over the blaze fueled by his love for Ben. Once all of his words had been burned, it would be Ben’s turn.

Would he fight it? Driven mad at the sight of George’s words in embers, lash out to preserve what he had worked so hard to say? Lafayette holding him back, warning him not to make this harder than it needed to be. Hamilton looking on in disgust and disappointment. Ben’s letters were so passionate. It would drive Hamilton mad to think this sweet young boy could pen such filth. _Filth_ , that's what he would call it.

Tears rolled down George’s cheeks. His Benjamin was all alone up there. Once their life was in ashes, he would be scrubbed clean, pink and fresh as a newborn babe. Lafayette would crawl beneath the covers and take Ben under his arm, quieting the hiccuping sobs until he fell asleep.

Which meant that when morning came there was nothing left. Ben would be made new, cleansed and forgiven by his founded family. If the offer had been made for him to leave, it would’ve been done as the letters were burned, when Ben was to distraught to find the courage to leave. In the new light of day, wrapped up in Lafayette’s arms, Ben would not know how to say goodbye.

_How does one say goodbye?_

Hamilton would enter the chamber, soft smiles and gentle hands. Ten long years of love and protection. That fire George has worked so hard to ignite would be snuffed out. His heart wrenched at the thought of their hands taming back Ben’s curls. Tender kisses and fond embraces as the three picked up the pieces of the night before. All of George would be swept up the floo.

All of George would be left in a field.

Another sad realization fell on his shoulders. This was _it_ for him. His life, his reputation, all staked on the hopes that Ben would find him. He suddenly wished for the days where he felt still and empty. Anything felt better than the reality that he would die here, alone in a field. That his symphony would be pinned to the wall unfinished, torn down by angry hands as Hamilton erased any trace of Ben from his shop.

Is this how he would be remembered? The madman who became obsessed with Benjamin Tallmadge? A name socialites whispered behind their fans when they saw Ben; awestruck at how this beautiful man survived such a wretched ordeal. His life was an _ordeal_. A spectacle. A dark stain on Ben’s good name.

God, Hamilton was _right_.

His works, if any survived, would be marked by last night. They would be listened to by _daring_ individuals looking to glimpse into the mind of a delusional deviant. How could some no name musician ever become infatuated with Benjamin Tallmadge? To _touch_ him as if they were lifelong lovers? With no letters, no _proof_ , George would go down as a lunatic. His wild and passionate compositions an obvious testament to his instability. _Oh how couldn't they have seen the red flags before?_ They let a wolf into their fine little flock, and he almost made off with a lamb.

Not just any lamb; _Benjamin Tallmadge,_ upper society’s patron saint. Born into a noble family, struck with tragedy at a young age, and yet grew up good and pious. He had more faith in humanity than God himself, and it would come as no surprise that is charitable nature would attract those wishing to prey on his kindness.

“ _Then all of Paris should act on his purse strings”_

And all of George would act on his beauty. He was, in Hamilton’s mind after all, a lecherous old man. One full of lust and greed, who wanted nothing more than to strip Benjamin down and rob him of everything his name was worth. To take away his youth, and leave him broken and destitute.

Would _Benjamin_ think that of him?

For the first time, George became painfully aware of how old he had become. The back of his hands looked withered, the bone raised and gnarled. It was nothing like the soft supple hands Benjamin had, so young and full of life. _Good God_ , Ben was twenty years his junior. A _child_. A young soul trying to find solace, and instead he found George. How _awful_. How unfortunate.

George felt disgusting. He felt wretched and old. His fingers itched to open the vial, take its contents, and accept death; but there was still daylight, no matter how scarce it was. His day wasn't over. His time wouldn't come.

Thunder rolled.

Soft rain pitter-pattered against the leaves, and George tucked his legs closer to stave off the cold. The leaves above him shivered, trembling at the sound of thunder rolling across the sky.

Far on the grass, the older shepherd called out something, short and pained. George watched as his slight frame crumpled to the ground, his staff discarded as he fell. The younger shepherd did not hear him, and continued to shout his singsong call.  
He called out three times, waiting eagerly for the older shepherd to return his words. George swallowed thickly; the older shepherd would not rise. The sheep spread thinner, unchecked and wild. The herd split in all directions as the younger frantically called for the older amongst the bleating.

George pressed his forehead to his knees, unable to watch as the young shepherd abandoned his flock to rush to the older man.

 _It was over_.

A mournful cry rose up over the hill, and George could no longer bite back his doubts. _Benjamin was not coming_. He had made his choice. Life with George would be miserable compared to the fine luncheons, exquisite garments and illustrious company. Life without Hamilton and Lafayette would be unbearable, orphaned once again by George’s hand. People would gawk and stare at the angelic man who now wore rags because he was naive enough to put himself into the hands of a monster. A wolf who had consumed him. All that was left were the bones, picked clean of any riches or dignity.

Benjamin had made his choice, and now it was George’s turn.

Despite what Hamilton believed, George was a man of honor, and he intended to make good on his promise. The small vial was almost crushed by his trembling fingers as he fished it out of his pocket. Inside, the drug awaited, promising an end to this whole affair. And what a messy affair it was. George openly sobbed as he opened the vial, emptying its contents into his tongue. It was bitter, and George almost retched it all up; but it slid down.

Panting, George leaned against the bark of the tree, taking in his surroundings for the last time. His heart ached, and a cold sweat broke out. The sheep had dissipated, no longer cared for by their keepers. The younger shepherd was hunched over his older companion, shoulders shaking in great sobs. George wondered if he’d walk with the older man to the gates of Heaven, the two happy not to have made the eternal walk alone.

Pain rang out, waves of hot and cold crashing over George mercilessly. His stomach turned. His shirt was soaked more with sweat than rain. It wouldn't be too long now. His silver pocket watch fell to the ground as his hands lost their grip. He wondered who would tell Benjamin of his demise. A sharp pain in his chest reminded him otherwise. No one would tell Benjamin. His body would be quietly collected and buried in an unmarked grave. They would say “ _The deviant had run off! Most likely to find happier hunting grounds.”_

It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. The field before him tripled, separating and converging before his eyes in a delirious display. His breathing was labored, every breath a sucking gasp. He could no longer sob as the drug took its toll.

Everything went still.

George’s eyes slid close, taking in only the mournful cries of the shepherd and the distant sound of thunder. His last thoughts were of Benjamin; sitting sweetly by the open window as sunlight trickled through the clouds. George would be sure to part the clouds on the other side, and always keep a window to the heavens clear for him.

It would be perfect.

“ _Goodbye, my Benjamin”_

And maybe death would have been merciful, but as fate would have it, George’s suffering had just begun. You see, a lethal dose of opium to a smaller man does _wonders_ to a man of George’s stature. Though still as a corpse, his mind is wide awake, and wrought with nightmarish possibilities.

Helpless to his own psyche, strewn in the grass, George will find out what happens when you let a wolf into the flock.

The first taste is blood.

 

 

 

 


	4. March to the Scaffold

_ Blood _ . The first sensation to creep back through George’s senses was that telltale taste lingering on his tongue--no, coming  _ from _ his tongue. The sharp throb in his mouth told him he had bitten the damn thing. The side of his mouth was tender and aching, the inner cheek shredded as well. 

The next sensation was a god awful stench. This couldn't be the field, with those fresh wide open spaces. This was something else. It’s putrid smell was a horrible mix of mildew, vomit, and piss, making George horribly aware that he must be on the floor of this wretched place. Trying not to heave, he took long slow breaths in an attempt to quell the panic rising within him. What had  _ happened? _ He took the opium, that much he knew. He remembers the rain, and the thunder. The poor shepherd’s last call. George cracked open his eyes, adjusting to the dimness of his surroundings. His vision doubled, spinning, until the room finally came into view.

A cell.

He was in a  _ cell. _

George desperately tried to scramble to his feet, to leap up and find out how he came to be in such a place, but his body betrayed him. It was limp and heavy, as if just awakened from a deep sleep. Twitching each finger took tremendous effort, and George felt more like a puppeteer yanking on a useless doll, it's strings tangled and weighed down with lead. This had to be a dream. A horrible, drug induced nightmare from which he would slip into death soon. Why else would his own body abandon him? 

Outside the cell a crowd could be heard. Their cries pouring through the small window, accompanied by the sound of drums and hooves, sounded like raucous parade. The jeering crescendoed, as if the crowd multiplied with every passing second. They were waiting for something, feeding off the adrenaline and anticipation. It coaxed George to scrape together some strength to investigate. 

One hand returned to him, giving George the opportunity to push himself up so that his cheek no longer lay pressed to the filthy floor. Several minutes later his feet regained feeling, and then his knees, and slowly George pulled himself to his feet--shaking and wobbling like a newborn fawn. His hands grasped the wrought iron bars of the cell window, forehead pressed to the cool metal as he gazed down at the mob below.By now the masses below him were thunderous, waving fists wrapped tight around papers and handkerchiefs. A man stood on a crate, holding up a pamphlet to the eager crowd. They all huddled around him, pressing close to hear him over the sound of drums.

“Tragedy befalls Paris today, ladies and gentlemen! God has turned his eye from us, disappointed with the creation of man! What you are about to hear is not for the faint of heart, as the heavenly angels themselves would shield their senses from the carnage that runs rampant amongst us.

Benjamin Tallmadge, the people’s man, found murdered in his bed! His murderer none other than the fiendish composer, George Washington! Monsieur Washington had been publicly scorned after attempting to force himself on Monsieur Tallmadge at a ball just two days past. The assault was valiantly stopped by our dear Marquis de Lafayette and the good Monsieur Hamilton. Yet tragedy sought out poor Monsieur Tallmadge. 

Monsieur Washington, driven to madness by Monsieur  Tallmadge’s beauty and status, lay in wait. Limber as a circus man, he climbed the vines to Tallmadge’s bedroom, stealing away inside. Our poor Monsieur Tallmadge was no match for his brutish strength. The fiend stabbed him in the chest and side, weakening Monsieur Tallmadge as he tried to open the door to his bed chambers. Monsieur Washington then crudely lay him out on the bed, wrapping his hands ‘round his throat until the life left him. Had it not been for our brave Monsieur Hamilton, who broke down the door, who knows what else this deviant would have done! 

I ask you, what would you have done? Faced with a beast in your home, atop your loved one as he choked the life from them? I ask myself this every time I see Monsieur Hamilton’s face! Even now the man has more bravery than I have ever known, for just  _ up there _ lies the killer! He plans on meeting this demon face to face once more before  _ final judgement  _ is placed on Monsieur Washington’s shoulders--or rather, taken  _ off  _ his shoulders!”

The breath left George’s body as his legs crumpled beneath him, mind cutting to blackness as he hit the stone floor. The cell fell apart around him, leaving him suspended in the threads of a memory-- an open weave that left large gaps where there should be reason.

He saw the mansion of the Marquis, it’s sides covered in creeping vines, blooming thick with honeysuckle flowers. It's aroma was intoxicating, luring him close to press his face to the lush dark leaves, and feeling the latticed frame they clung to. High above, a light flickered softly from an open window.  _ Benjamin _ . Limned by silvery moonlight, Ben leaned over his windowsill, elegant fingers plucking a handful of honeysuckle blossoms and depositing them into a bowl beside him. George tried to call out to him--catch his attention and profess some deeper love-- but his voice escaped him.    


Ben’s slight frame left his view, but the window remained open. Beyond the vines George could spy the flutter of sheer curtains in the evening breeze, causing the warm glow of the candles to flicker gently. He  _ must _ be there, if only just to catch another brief glimpse of the beautiful man who haunted him. One boot found its way to the latticed wood behind the vine, taking hold and hoisting up George’s large frame. The leaves trembled beneath his fingers, their shivering masking the sound of his ascent. One heaving pull at a time, he crept closer to the window ledge, the smell of honeysuckle making his mouth water. George’s hand grasped the ledge, and he poked his head up to gaze inside.

“ _ Oh my god” _

Inside was Benjamin, seated on a plush stool in front of a mirror. His hair was taken out of its neat plait, and brushed until it shimmered like gold in the candlelight. He was swathed in a delicate dressing gown, the material almost as translucent as the curtains; George was certain if he were to stand beside the candles, he’d be as good as naked. 

Gazing at the reflection in the mirror, George could see Ben fixated on something in his hands; a small white honeysuckle blossom. His fingers worked to pinch the base, withdrawing the string of a stem from the petals. Ben’s lips curled into a smile as he spied a bead of nectar at the end of the stem, a sweet pearl of a prize for his efforts. Those pink lips pressed around it, lapping up the treat. George let out a breathy gasp at the sight. 

Ben’s eyes snapped up, catching George’s reflection peering over from the window. Cheeks pink, his hands fumbled to make sure his gown was closed as he turned in his seat to face him.

“ _ George?” _

There was no fear in his eyes, despite the fact that George had just crept into his bedroom like a burglar. They were wide and blue, brimming with the awe and excitement they once held before that awful ball. George’s gaze dropped to his lips, pink and parted, glistening at the center with forgotten nectar--enticing.He could think of nothing else to say as he steadied himself on the sill.

“ _ Benjamin.” _

Ben rose from the velvet stool, rushing towards the window where he teetered. George took it as an invitation to swing his legs over, stepping onto the fine hardwood floor, narrowly avoiding Ben’s bare feet as he did so. His cock twitched at the sight of the man, his naked silhouette obscured by the billowy folds of his garment, face turned up towards him to gaze into his eyes. There was a touch of sadness as his eyes lingered over him.

“I have shamed you, Monsieur. I called you friend, and when you needed me I could not find the courage to stand by you.” Ben said, his voice soft as a whisper. “I do not expect your forgiveness, but I will gladly accept your pity--for I am not worthy of all the kindness you have shown me.” 

George’s heart ached as he spied tears brimming in the young man’s eyes, and he felt a pang of shame at the way he had so brazenly kissed him before. “I’m afraid the shame is mine, dear Benjamin. Your company was so enticing, so very warm and good, that I forgot myself. I have done you wrong, as well as your keepers-- Hamilton and Lafayette--who keep steady watch on your heart.”

Ben shook his head, eyes pleading. “They do not  _ own _ my heart, Monsieur. That honor...oh…” Ben leaned back on his heels, bashfully breaking his gaze with George to look at his feet. “That honor belongs to...to…” 

George shouldn't take so much pleasure in this, but by God it was beautiful. His little Benjamin, trying so desperately to make himself clear. He wondered how many letters the boy had drafted before sending the final copies; without careful editing, Benjamin was a stuttering mess. It was becoming of him; that unobtainable beauty only heightened by how one must pull a confession from him. It was a playful game he was willing to try his hand at.

George lay a gentle hand on the crest of Ben’s hip, his fingertips pressing into the soft warm flesh beneath. Ben’s gaze returned to him, locked in a breathtaking stare as George leaned close. “Can you tell me?” He asked, slow and deliberate. A pause, time to blush before Ben slowly shook his head.  _ Too shy. _ A smile tugged at George’s lips as he dipped his head forward, voice coming to him low and husky.

“Can you  _ show  _ me?” 

Ben’s lashes fluttered, his eyes never moving from George’s, and, as if mesmerized, his fingers undid the sash holding his dressing gown closed. The material fell open, exposing first a deep triangle of smooth skin before it was shrugged off of his shoulders, and pooled on the floor. George’s breath caught in his chest at the sight-- Ben,  _ his Ben _ , ready for him.  _ Wanting him.  _ He was already aroused, something that the billowy gown had hidden quite nicely until now. George felt like a starving man at a feast, his eyes flickering hungrily over the man in front of him, unsure where to sink his teeth first. 

Meanwhile, Ben stood proud--his eyes giving away his valiant effort to remain calm under the watchful eye of his admirer. If he could not say his desires, he would show them, and how gorgeous he looked doing it. Heat unfurled in George’s gut, it's searing throb radiating through him--possessing him. He was by no means a  religious man, but faced with his inner most desires George could only manage to choke out a half hearted prayer. “ _ Dear God, forgive me for the things I'm about to do you” _

George pressed his lips to Ben’s, immediately tasting the sticky remnants of the honeysuckle nectar. It’s sweetness baited him, luring his tongue to cross between those soft lips and chase the taste. Ben sprung off his feet, jumping to wrap his legs around George’s middle. George clapped his hands over the curve of Ben’s rear, catching and supporting him.  _ Wild, reckless abandon. _ Benjamin had become undone and it was delicious. George let his hands tease the man, fingertips gently spreading his cheeks as he clung to him. Ben’s breath hitched, his hips moving to rub his stiff cock against the fabric of George’s shirt. 

Lost in kisses, he carried Ben to the bed, falling unceremoniously on top of him as they continued their exploration. George had just trailed his lips down to the underside of Ben’s jaw when he felt fingers grasping at his waistband. “Please...please let me see you.” He begged, the request threaded between heavy breaths. George lifted himself off the boy, not ignoring the groan of disappointment as he did so. 

Standing at the foot of the bed George  began to disrobe. It was delightful watching Ben’s eyes roam over him as he divested himself of his shabby jacket, the waistcoat and shirt sleeves not far behind. Propped up on his elbows, eyes wide with innocent curiosity he watched as George undid the fastenings to his breeches. George made sure to watch Ben as he stepped out of them, savoring the way his lips parted silently, chest rising and falling rapidly as he let his eyes linger on George’s naked body. A small pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, leaving an alluring shine. 

Before George could press a knee to the bed, Ben was up, scrambling to bridge the distance between them. It seems his tease sparked something within him, for Ben’s hands pulled him by the waist close to the edge of the bed, where he was greeted by the hot moist heat of an open mouth on his cock. George sighed, captivated by the sight of Ben panting against him. He reached down, pressing a thumb to Ben’s lower lip. “Would you like to taste, dear Benjamin?”

Ben’s mouth fell open, accepting the offer eagerly. All at once George was enveloped by hot slick heat, groaning as Ben’s tongue brushed the head of his cock. Soft sucking sounds drifted like music to his ears, accompanied by a symphony of sighs that made his heart flutter. Oh how beautiful Ben was, eyes closed as he gently slid George in and out. George let a hand drop down to cradle the back of his head, guiding him. Ben yielded to him, allowing George to set the pace of his thrusts as his hands gripped his hips. 

It would be so easy to finish now, to pull out and spend all over that pretty face, but George had other ideas. All those letters, those sweet promises, he owed Ben  _ more. _ The chance to pull him into his lap to examine the gifts God had bestowed upon him more  _ closely. _ Grasping Ben by the nape of his neck, George pulled him off his cock--eyes half lidded, lips swollen and chin shining with saliva. A soft whimper of disappointment escaped him, and George smiled.

“My dear boy, there will be more of that.” He cooed, thumbing underneath his eye. “And if you’ll have me-- _ all _ of me-- I can show you all the splendid passions your visage has inspired.” Benjamin looked up at him with hazy eyes, drunk with pleasure that made his head lean heavily into George’s palm. 

“I’m yours.” Ben whispered, melting just as sweetly as he said he would under George’s touch. A firm hand on the center of Ben’s chest guided him onto his back, where George left him for only a moment to fetch the little bottle of oil from his jacket. Taking one of Ben’s slender hands, he pressed the bottle into it and wrapped his fingers into a closed fist.

“For warmth, dear Benjamin.” George said, his tone relaying that it would be in Ben’s best interest to keep the bottle wrapped tightly in his fist. The boy relayed the importance by clutching it close to his chest. George slid his hands down Ben’s sides, laying his palms flat on his thighs. They trembled beneath his fingertips as he pushed them apart.

Laid out like this, Benjamin looked ethereal. The candlelight flickered over him, catching the glisten of sweat on his brow. His cock lay heavy and upturned against his stomach as his chest heaved--waiting for George to make his next move. George dipped down, nestling between Ben’s silken thighs to taste him. He pressed his tongue against his hole, listening for a telltale sign of approval. He received a low moan, granting him permission to taste him further. Ben sighed sweetly, his breaths long and drawn out as George licked him open. Bless his heart, the boy still had his hands clasped firmly to his chest, the oil taking on the heat of his palms. 

Drawing back, George drank in the blissful expression adorning Ben. His eyes had slid shut, brows relaxed and upturned as his lips parted in a silent ‘o’. His cheeks were the most appealing, blushing a deep generous pink-- almost as if spiked by fever. A fever pitch Ben had  _ warned _ him about igniting. 

“The oil, darling.” George ordered, keeping his voice calm. Ben unfurled his fingers, the little bottle now warm to the touch from his sweat slick hands. George slicked a finger, steadying Ben with a solid hand on his front before pressing the digit in. He bucked, understandably. Nothing a little shushing and cooing couldn't soothe. “Hush now, Benjamin. The sting fades, and soon…” George curled the finger inside him, watching his back arch with pleasure “...you begin to crave it.” 

One finger became two, George delighting in the mewling whimpers Ben put out as he chased the sensation of his fingers. His other hand reached to stroke the neglected cock twitching on his stomach, drawing forth more moans. “How beautifully you respond, Benjamin. No symphony could be finer than this...though I am too selfish to let others hear you play for me.” The third finger sent Benjamin babbling; a string of pleas pouring from his lips as he pushed against George’s fingers. He had teased the poor thing enough. It was time to indulge in a fantasy they both worked so hard to create.

Slicked and ready, George pushed in, eliciting a low wanton moan as he felt Ben right around him. His hips rolled, pushing him deeper still into that heat. He wanted to feel sheathed, completely enveloped in him. Below, Ben pushed back, driving his cock further. His head pressed back into the pillows, golden hair fanned like a halo around him; a dignified angel on his back. 

The first thrust shattered that dignity. The second let the mask--the years of refined etiquette--slip away. The third, fourth, fifth drew out every passionate carnal desire George had wished for. Ben was undone; sweating and swearing, opening himself up for more, gasping and writhing underneath him without shame of how he looked. He begged for _more,_ begged George to go _harder._

_ “I am no porcelain doll. You cannot shatter me.” _ He panted. George admired his courage, and the stupidity in it---he most definitely  _ could _ shatter him. But the boy’s desires were clear. He didn't want to be a treasure, something handled gently and placed on a shelf. He wanted to be  _ used _ ;  _ enjoyed.   _ He wanted to feel pleasure and pain, and rake his nails over the backs of lovers who gave him all that money could not. 

George pulled back, almost out, and slammed in hard. Ben let out a high, strangled scream--impossibly loud compared to their noises prior. He hunched over to press his lips close to Ben’s ear.

“ _ Quiet yourself, Benjamin. We wouldn't want Monsieur Hamilton finding you like this.” _

Ben did not respond. 

Instead his croaking cry amplified and split like a chorus of screams-- and George noticed something along his collarbone and ribs.  _ Blood.  _ His eyes fixed to the window behind them, following Ben’s absent stare.

It was as if George could see the phantom of a reality close to this one playing out. He climbed the vine, yes. Ben half dressed at the mirror, yes. Only this time Ben didn't rush to him...he rushed  _ away. _ Away towards the door where George bounded to stop him. He drew a letter opener off the desk and watched it sink into Ben’s ribs. The Ben below him on the bed let out a wail as the knife entered the phantom, and again as the action was repeated on his collarbone.

There was no passionate kissing towards the bed as this phantom George scooped up his victim and laid him on the bed, one transparent figure melting into the physical form beneath him. His phantom self then joined him, passing through and possessing him. He could feel  _ all _ that this fiend did. The anger, the  _ humiliation. _ His hands twitched, guided by some unseen force to the pale throat beneath him.

Ben screamed, short and abrupt as his hands clamped down on his neck. He felt the breath leave him, a great rush of air as the rest of him convulsed. This wasn't  _ him.  _ He wanted Ben, he  _ loved _ Ben. George pleaded for it to stop. For the phantom that had claimed him to cease this torment and let his boy live. 

Wet hot tears streaked George’s face as Ben’s fingers desperately tried to loosen his grip. He could  _ shatter _ him. Crush him like a blossom beneath a cart. The duvet turned dark red, each convulsing motion worsening the bleeding from his wounds. This torment would last  _ forever _ if he did not tighten his grip. He must tighten it and let this nightmare pass; put out the light, and then  _ put out the light. _

And finally--Ben responds. His pulse slows beneath his fingertips. His lips blue where they were once pink and luscious. The light from his eyes fades, and all that was Benjamin Tallmadge stares back at him vacantly; a battered porcelain doll.

There is a ringing so loud in George’s ears that he cannot register the sound of the heavy wood door being broken down. A loud wail of terror. He cannot let his eyes leave Benjamin, though he knows full well who hit him across the face with a heavy silver pitcher. 

“ _ BENJAMIN!” _

And just like that George’s eyes snap open, the dank cell once again beneath his cheek as the wailing continues from down the dungeon hall. It's the sound of a man in mourning, and a guard escorts two gentlemen in full black to his gate.

“Monsieur Washington, you have visitors. Show your respect and rise for the Marquis de Lafayette and Monsieur Hamilton.”

George picks himself off the ground, mind spinning by his visions. His query to which was real was answered quickly; Benjamin was dead. Why else would he be in this cell. How cruel was his own mind that it conjured the sweetest passions before dashing them against the rocks. Showing him just how awful his beloved’s final moments had been--at  _ his _ hands. 

Hamilton approached the wrought iron gate, fists balled in anger.

“You... _ you... _ took him from us. That poor boy did  _ nothing _ to you. He showed you kindness and pity, when he should have showed you indifference. I  _ hated _ that he spoke to commoners, that he affiliated with the likes of those beneath us. Well I was wrong. While I was worried about him falling to the hands of people like  _ you,  _ our Benjamin was winning over this city.

He funded orphanages. He helped to pave roads, and buy new books. He bought bread for those with none, and made meals out of nothing. He dug deep into his own pockets, uplifting those in need wherever he went--people who could never repay the money he generously doled out.

But they  _ will _ repay him.

Your capture has spread across Paris like wildfire. You've struck down an angel, and now you get to face the wrath of heaven. This city will not let you slip quietly into the night--no. They mean to see you pay for what you did to Benjamin. They want  _ blood _ and By God they will  _ have it. _

There was no need for a trial. The magistrate, the lawyers, all saw what you did to Benjamin at that ball. They saw what you did to him. My Benjamin.  _ My _ Benjamin-- you took him. Well now it's my turn to take something. All of Paris has arrived, and there will be a special guest at the guillotine today. When they put you in it, and you feel the hot sticky life blood of the hundred men chopped before you-- just know it is still  _ too good _ a punishment.” 

With that Hamilton sped off, his hands frantically wiping at tears he had so bravely tried to hide. George sank to his knees, hands dragging down the rusted iron. To his surprise Lafayette did not depart with him. The Marquis approached the gate, sinking to his knees to meet George’s eye. He held something wrapped in black silk, unveiling it for George to see.

A death mask.

A likeness of Benjamin cast from the cold corpse in the bed where he was slain. His eyes closed in eternal sleep, lips full, even in wax George could imagine the stain of rouge on his cheeks. Lafayette’s voice came soft from his lips. 

“It is wax, for now, but soon it will be iron forged. He will be eternal, strong...unbreakable. It is not enough. This is  _ not enough.  _ I cannot kiss this without being reminded of cold death. Our Benjamin was flesh and blood. If only he were born of iron, cool to the touch of lips so that this mask would feel more like him.”

The Marquis wrapped the mask back up, his delicate gloved fingers pausing to trace over the high waxy cheekbone. “He was already cold when I found him. Can you tell me...was he warm? Did he cool as you took him from us?” He asked tearfully, his voice wavering uncontrollably. George was moved, horrible guilt churning on his stomach as he watched Lafayette cradle the death mask in his arms. He felt his own tears come forth.

“It felt like... pinching out a candle with your fingertips. Hot and searing, and then dull and warm as the smoke curls away…” George whispered, his own hands feeling the phantom slowing of Ben’s pulse. 

Lafayette’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, his face twisted with anguish. “And will I see the smoke curl from you when your head topples from your shoulders?” There was a biting anger to that question. The insinuation that George was soulless, a walking demon who would face the scaffold unphased. George swallowed thickly.

“You will see blood.”

Lafayette rose to his feet, Benjamin’s death mask pressed close to his chest. Fat tear drops slid down his face, some landing with a tiny  _ pap _ on the stone floor. He loomed over George, paralyzing him with a stare so deep and mournful that George could feel hours of wailing the Marquis had endured.

“I have seen  _ enough _ blood, Monsieur.” He hissed. With a click of his heeled boots, Lafayette turned and made for the exit, where Hamilton was undoubtedly convincing someone to dull the guillotine blade. George wondered how long he would wait to find out.

One hundred men. That's what Hamilton said would precede his execution. One hundred souls tried for crimes just as heinous as his. The blood, the sheer amount of it, would overrun the shotty little gutters lining the cobblestone streets. A sea of red he would wade through and be swallowed up by. By the sounds of the crowd, the show had already begun, the lightning  fast efficiency of the guillotine making quick work of these poor souls. 

Suddenly, two guards stormed the gates of his cell, banging the metal so loudly that George practically keeled over from shock. They slapped shackled to his wrists and ankles, leading him in a slow deliberate shuffle out of the cell. The neighboring cells were empty, gutted of their inhabitants and put to the guillotine. The guards who remained leered at him, some snickering behind their hands as he clumsily made his way out. 

Outside was a rickety old cart, a space for the driver and an open bed one would normally transport hogs in. He was shoved roughly into the back, falling into some mess a very sick hog must have left behind. The guards laughed. “Don't get too comfy. We know this chariot is  _ very _ fine.” The cart started off with the snap of a whip, and sped down the cobblestone streets.

Pulling himself upright, George could see the wide Parisian streets mobbed with people. His face seared as one woman lobbed a rotten fruit at him. It was joined by all manner of flying debris; horseshit, tomatoes, stale bread, rocks. They pelted him mercilessly, screaming as though possessed.

“ _ MURDERER!” _

_ “You’ll burn for this!” _

_ “Catch him between the eyes!” _

George slumped back into the cart, favoring the pig mess for the rain of rotten garbage showering him. He covered his head, running his fingers through his hair for what would be the last time. He contemplated sliding down and laying flat in the bed when the cart turned abruptly, bringing into his line of sight a new and horrid terror.

The Guillotine.

It’s blade fell just as it came into view, a roar rising from the crowd as it’s recipient found their shoulders much lighter. All too soon, the blade was raised high once again, catching the sunlight in its red, syrupy blade. It fell again, another roar following.

Along the edges of the crowd was a procession. A long linked line of prisoners, shackled and sobbing as they watched the guillotine come closer. George could have sobbed as the guards pulled him from the cart, attaching him as the final link to this miserable chain. 

There was nowhere to look  _ but  _ the guillotine. It's steady pace ticking away the final moments of the line. Even staring at his hands, George was not oblivious to the wishing down of the blade, the  _ tup _ of a head hitting the scaffold, and the cheers of the crowd. A priest made his way down the line, laying a gentle hand on the sobbing few ahead of him. He gave them peace. Last prayers. As the drew near, George recognized him as one of the plump men he entertained at the ball. 

“Father…” George began, in an attempt to beg forgiveness from God. The priest eyed him with contempt, the gentle forgiving touch of his palm retracting to his body. He left George without another word. God would not listen to him. 

Another horror ensued as the crowd whipped into a frenzy. The woman only three short people ahead of him was not  _ dead yet. _ Her stocks were loose, her body contorting so that the dull blade did not sever her head completely. The crowd reeled in horror as the blade was quickly raised, the woman gargling and shrieking until it fell and completed its task. George openly cried as they heaved her body onto a cart.

He was so close now. His bit his tongue in an attempt to swallow the bile rising in his throat. The blood spilled from the scaffold, filling the cobblestone streets like a shimmering red lake. George’s breeches were stained up to the shins the closer he got, his only salvation being the very steps up to the guillotine. He closed his eyes as the man before him said his last words, trying hard to steel his heart as he heard the blade come down.

It was his time now.

Two hands grasped his shoulders, forcing him to his knees with such brute strength that it could have shattered his kneecaps. A man took a knife, shearing off his ponytail at the nape of his neck; clear a path for the blade, die quickly. George strained as they hooked his head into the stock, retching as his neck came into contact with the many many layers of coagulated blood on the wood. The first press to his neck was hot--full of the lifeblood of the man before him. As his neck settled in the liquid became cold and slimy, a grim reminder that he too would cool. George silently prayed to be made of iron. To always be cold. To not be able to distinguish flesh from blade as his head fell from him. He opened his eyes to see the world one last time; he saw  _ it… _

Benjamin

Yes, yes it was undeniable. Ben was  _ alive. _ He was in the crowd, front and center in his fine blue suit, almost knee deep in the blood being pushed back at the crowd. George would have thought him a ghost had it not been for the flutter of his hair as a

man threw a rock past it. The blade rose as that sweet innocent melody of Ben’s had returned, flesh and blood, watching him with awe and wonder. He was  _ alive--  _ he was  _ here--  _ and George was…

“ _ WAI---” _

The blade came down hard, and in an instant George stood behind his own twitching body--a phantom. The crowd roared, Ben smiling sweetly and melting into the crowd. George stepped over his body, his head agape in the basket, and rushed off the scaffold. The crowd parted for Ben, not acknowledging him as they booed the corpse of his murderer. George passed through their jeering bodies like a breeze, intent on following Ben into the crowd. The cheering faded, as if every step out a mile between them, and the world became dim and nonexistent. It was dark, all but for the glimmer off Ben’s golden hair. George clenched his fists, and strode forward.

He would not let him go this time.


	5. Witches Sabbath

This was not Paris.

The Paris George had known had dissolved, broken apart as he passed through the veil of eternity. It felt like fog, cold and damp, but split like silk between his fingers. For a brief moment he had considered turning back, accepting that Benjamin had tricked him, and killed him. Yet the fear that he would linger on amongst the living, and hear his name spoken in infamy for centuries, drove him forward. There was nothing left for him here. 

The fog closed behind him silently, the mortal realm shimmering through like sunlight through a curtain. Beyond the veil stood stone pillars, each the size of a great tree trunk, and stretching further than the eye could see. It was cavernous, dark, and impeccably ornate; like some being had carved an opera house into the bowels of a cave. Each step George took was returned tenfold, bouncing off of every wall until the meager shuffling of one man thundered like the confident stride of an entire army. 

A high pitched cry sounded off in the distance, sharp as the cut of a piccolo through an ensemble. It teetered off, the notes falling like the mournful cries of a dying man. Somewhere far behind him came the same cry, this one brassy and low. George curled into himself. As impossibly large as this place was, he felt claustrophobic; buried alive. He quickened his pace, trying to push out the shrill sound of tittering laughter high above him. 

Yet the noise persisted, growing closer and louder as George crept through the stone halls. Then suddenly, a flicker-- warm and bright amongst the cold darkness. A candle lit room just beyond a large oak door. Soft voices twisted from it, their tones as malicious as they were jubilant; the sounds of one enjoying another’s misfortune. George was about to turn and pass when one of the voices rang clear. It was a melody he had heard often, only now it’s sweet harmonies were gone. It was sour and dissonant; cackling.  _ Benjamin. _

As the door drew near, George could clearly make out three voices. They sighed and laughed, taking turns dipping out of existence just before George could put a name to the sound. But he knew one was Ben. It  _ had _ to be. No other voice fell with such clarity on his ears, even in this godforsaken hellscape. Courage spiked the fear in the pit of his stomach. He needed  _ answers.  _ Why had this happened? Why did he deserve such a fate? Where was Benjamin? George pressed his palm flat against the wood of the door. It was hot, and hummed beneath his fingers like the plucking of strings. Slowly, he pushed it open.

He wished he hadn't. 

All at once the sighing and laughing crescendoed in his ears, a cacophony of clashing notes that split the eardrum. The light of the candles felt blinding against his eyes, searing the horrid sight before him into his mind. 

A boudoir, nestled cozily in the bowels of this great stone catacomb. Silks draped from the ceiling in billowing swells, reducing the candles back to soft hazy circles. Strewn across the floor were plush luxuries; pillows, wine bottles shattered and discarded, fine silk clothes torn seam by seam. The air was thick with the scent of iron, laced with the subtle traces of perfume. The home of a harem. A den filled with pleasures for the senses. 

It’s fine luxuries, however, were marred by the visceral atrocities it's inhabitants indulged in. Blood, untold amounts of it, stained the bolts of silk, the furniture, and floor. Dainty red footprints plastered over forgotten papers, leading to two writhing bodies propped up by a heap of cushions. George was drawn to the scene, his feet moving independently from his body as he tread carefully into the room. Two sets of bloody footprints, dancing manically over the pages strewn across the floor, it’s thick congealed imprint obscuring the black marks on the page. Music staves.  _ His symphony.  _

Nearing the couple, George could more clearly make out their identities; Hamilton and the Marquis. Hamilton wedged between Lafayette’s legs, the two sticky with blood and sweat. Deep claw marks gouged in Hamilton’s back, a sign of something feral and wild--yet  _ clearly _ matching the dainty nails Lafayette was dragging down the skin, taking some of it away with him. The two ground against each other, exchanging hasty moans as George passed by. While Hamilton’s face was buried in the crook of Lafayette’s neck, the Marquis cast his gaze elsewhere, beyond the naked man writhing atop him. George followed his stare, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up. 

There lay Benjamin, propped comfortably on a fainting couch, graceful as a lion in repose. His pale and lithe frame was draped in silks, the same translucent fabric from his vision now wrapped in bolts around his naked body. The ivory sheen was splotched with blood, all of it fresh and red--so strikingly gruesome that George felt sick at the sight of it. What was more sickening was Benjamin himself; his face set in silent ecstasy, pink lips wrapped around two fingers, lapping at them tentatively. His chin was stained crimson, a river of blood that ran from his lips down as far as his rosy nipples. 

Horror filled George as he watched Ben, this once angelic being, draw his fingers from his lips. They dipped down behind the couch, sinking into something unseen with a squelch. Ben’s hand remained out of view a few moments before returning. His once clean fingers were red again, blood dripping from the digits onto the couch, droplets running into the crease of the silk. Ben’s lips parted, and wrapped around his fingers. His eyes slid close, a deep moan rising from his throat as he sucked the viscera from them.

“You put on quite a show, Benjamin.” Hamilton panted, lifting himself off of Lafayette. “Making a feast out of a nibble.” He shuffled forward on his knees, meeting Ben at the couch in time to seize the hand renewed with blood, and sucked on them for himself. Hamilton’s eyes were dark and hungry, asking Ben for something more than just his fingers. Ben’s eyes were unmoving...uncaring. He withdrew his hand from Hamilton’s mouth, dipping it back behind the couch for another taste of whatever poor thing had been bled. 

George skirted around the edge of the room, nearly stumbling over a few pillows and the Marquis, to glimpse behind the couch. The trio did not acknowledge him, though whether or not they could  _ see  _ him was still unclear. Lafayette’s eyes did not follow him as he stepped over his naked body, his stomach a smattering of blood and release. 

Ben’s hand reached his mouth again, disappearing for only a second before his face contorted, lips curled at the taste of something sour. He spat out the blood, a good glob of it streaking across Hamilton’s cheek. Ben scrubbed at his lips with the back of his slender hand.“It’s turned.” He spat, crossing his arms like a child in frustration. 

Hamilton smiled knowingly as he let his fingers trace patterns on Ben’s exposed knee. “I  _ told _ you it would. The old ones always turn fast. It's  _ wasteful. _ ” George’s feet urged him forward, still circling around to catch a peek at Ben’s feast. He should have pieced it together, but it wasn't until he saw the grey lifeless feet sticking out from behind the couch that it clicked. Some poor soul was their meal. And he didn't have to guess too hard as to who it was.

Lafayette pulled himself up off the floor, limbs still loose with pleasure. “Just because he is soured does not mean he is wasted. Our Benjamin must learn to indulge  _ more _ than just his sweet tooth.” 

Ben chuckled, wiping the blood from his hands onto the bolted silk, leaving ragged red hand prints. “My sweet tooth has kept us _ fed. _ They come willing, begging,  _ panting _ to our table. They lay themselves bare and they fall apart beneath our fingers, and I  _ must  _ indulge _. _ ” He sighed, one hand outstretching to gather Lafayette’s curls in his fist. The Marquis moved close, following Ben’s grasp. “Can you not deny that is the sweetest taste?” 

Lafayette moaned, allowing Ben to pull back his head and expose his neck-- streaked red with blood. “You seem to have indulged  _ plenty, _ thanks to me. Should I take back what's mine, or will you show me your appreciation for your warm bed and full stomach?” Ben’s question was met by a small sigh as Lafayette’s mouth fell open; a silent answer. Ben released his grip on his hair, peeling off the sheer silk to expose his cock. “ _ Proceed.” _ he commanded. Lafayette’s face fell into his lap, eagerly taking him in and sliding down. 

Hamilton placed a hand on the back of Lafayette’s head, cradling it gently as he guided him down onto Ben’s cock. “We’ve much to be thankful for.” He cooed. “Benjamin’s divine beauty, and the line of pathetic souls eager to make him kneel.” Hamilton laughed at his own statement, eyes twinkling as he recalled fond memories. 

“Though why you choose  _ this one  _ I’ll never know. The Yale man, ooh that one was tender. The whaler, who was sweet meat before his eyes beheld you, exceptional as well. Yet after that sorry excuse of an apothecary…” His lips twitched as if tasting something foul. “Bitter and unsatisfactory.” 

George felt paralyzed, unable to move from the corner he had backed himself into. From here he could see it all; Ben’s meal, Lafayette’s handiwork, Hamilton’s desperate attempts to get Ben to  _ notice _ him. George’s heart nearly leapt from his chest as his hand grazed a wicker basket, its lid slightly ajar. Lord knows what force tempted him to open it, despite all the horrors he had seen already. The first peek, the first sight of soft auburn curls matted with dirt, and he slammed the lid shut. 

How much torment could one heart take? The sounds of squelching, from both Lafayette’s eager mouth and the headless corpse, his own  _ head _ in a basket,  _ Benjamin.  _ His cheeks burned as hot fat tears welled in his eyes. This had to be a  _ nightmare.  _ This couldn't be his fate. For all the misdeeds he had done in life, all the sins left unatoned, none of them brought such damnation onto his shoulders. George buried his face in his hands, wracked with silent sobs as the soft sighs of pleasure began to grow. He couldn't bring himself to peek beyond the protective veil of his fingers. Benjamin rolling his hips up into Lafayette’s mouth, Hamilton’s hands wandering for something to stroke, the three of them soaked through with so much blood and lust that the air tasted metallic--every breath like a fresh bite into himself. It would shatter him. 

And then the sounds ceased, the rustle of fabric falling to the floor as George pressed his hands closer to his face. Slow deliberate footsteps, padding carefully over the papers, the sound of skin peeling up from the parchment. It drew near, and George felt long spindly fingers wrap around his wrists. His hands fell away from his face, forced to confront the demon before him; his Benjamin. 

He looked  _ wrong. _ No longer was he the sweet boy who entered his shop, all donned in buttons and bows. This Benjamin was sinister...cruel...demonic. He stood before George, wearing the same sheer ivory dressing gown he was murdered in, yet George knew the blood wasn't his. This  _ thing _ didn't bleed red. He stood perfectly still, long hair down and tousled, catching the light of the candles. The longer George stared, the more he began to notice the lines running across Ben’s cheeks. Soft, barely noticeable, webbing across his fair features. He was painted up like a doll…perhaps he  _ was _ one. George pondered if one good blow would shatter him to pieces, or just release whatever is using this comely facade as it’s home.

“Hello, George” 

Dread knotted up in his stomach, a thick heavy ball of lead that nailed his feet to the floor. He was trapped, utterly at the mercy of this eternal being. George could see it in his eyes, a kind of hardened look only age could bring; Ben had been doing this for  _ centuries.  _ He wasn't kind, or innocent. He was hungry. He lured men into the night, singing soft praises, and then struck viciously. George wishes he could wipe away the tears streaking his cheeks, to pretend he wasn't afraid, but Ben’s delicate grip on his wrists was a vice; there was no doubt he could feel how terribly his bones shook. 

His vision blurred, hot tears softening the harsh image of Benjamin, with his piercing eyes and blood soaked chin. Was it so wrong, so terribly awful, that George still found him beautiful? That this hideous display did nothing to his feelings toward him ? All he wanted was to love, and be loved. He gave up his life, gave up his body to his insatiable appetite, and would gladly hand over his soul if Benjamin asked him. 

And Benjamin saw this. His eyes darting down to George’s throat. “Still eager, I see. Maybe I was right to pick you.”His lips curled into a wicked smile that twisted his fine features. One hand released his wrist, slinking up and into his hair where it held tight. George felt a tug, long and slow, pulling his head back to expose his neck. His head tipped back…and then back, and back. There was a squelch. The feeling of two sticky halves slowly separating, peeling free along the very space the blade of the guillotine fell; his head was being tipped from his shoulders so that Ben might take a peek inside. 

Then something hot and slick swiped quick around the rim of his wound. A low hum escaped Ben, with the same appreciative timbre as when he licked the blood off of his fingers.He was  _ tasting _ him, letting his tongue probe the ghastly space that separates the neck at his Adam’s apple. It must have been a clean cut, because Ben’s tongue glides effortlessly across, hitting nerves dulled by adrenaline. He licked into him, mewling, chasing whatever pleasurable taste further down George’s throat. It's enough to make him sick, but the bile never rises. All George can do is wait helplessly under the mercy of Ben’s hands and tongue. 

With a low groan Ben’s taste is over, and George’s head is slowly tipped back into its rightful place; the flesh resealing itself noisily. George blinks rapidly, his head spinning-- though from being held upside down or blood legged he cannot tell. Before him, Ben stands perfectly still, his blood soaked chin renewed with a fresh glisten. His eyes are most horrifying, the vivid blue now just a thin ring around large black pupils. In their inky presence George could see his own reflection; a twisted, pale face of terror, with a red line ringing around his neck. He was a walking phantom. One bound to this hellscape, where even ghosts can be cannibalized. 

All at once the candles blew out, the image of Ben--drugged with bloodlust--searing into his mind as the light left the room. George screamed, not afraid of the dark, but afraid of losing sight of Ben--that  _ thing _ \-- in the darkness. His hands shoot out in front of him, groping the abyss for the telltale touch of Ben’s dressing gown, but he is met with air. The thing had departed, taking Hamilton and Lafayette with it. 

Three chimes struck on church bells. It's the next thing George can make out in the darkness. Upon hearing them a bare thread of light streams through the darkness, not unlike moonlight through the stained glass windows of a church. Only this was no church. George shivered, the pale bluish light casting long spindly shadows that tickled the soles of his feet. They urge him forward, meeting every hesitant step with pin pricks. 

It feels like a death march. A slow  _ dies irae  _ that pulls him unwillingly towards his judgement. It bellows low and deep, and George can feel it hum in his chest, churning his stomach. Doors pass by, some cracked open to let the light through, but he has lost the courage to explore. If this truly was his death march, then each door would be another sorry chamber of his life. He would rather walk into damnation than relive the heartbreak. He would rather  _ run _ to damnation than acknowledge the deep rumble behind him; something purring like a beast in heat. 

High above, a flash of white catches his eye. Something darts quickly around the corner, and his feet follow mindlessly. George turns his face up, squinting hard against what at first looks like a million twinkling stars. His gaze reverts back to the ground, blood turned cold, as he realizes that the stars were squinting back...and blinking. The white flash returns, this time just long enough for George to spy the tip of a blood splattered heel, it's pale skin glinting in the darkness.  _ Benjamin. _

He had returned, bouncing effortlessly on the tips of his toes as he scaled a high catwalk, hands outstretched and parting the darkness. He brought light, pale and cold, trickling down to the floor where George’s strides stick to the stone. George rounds the corner, if only just to see Ben’s silhouette turn the next. He's on the right path. His death march becomes more urgent, less of a somber procession into hell than it is a man with a net trying to catch the ghost of a butterfly. He's always within arm's reach of Ben, and yet leagues away. The catwalk is too high, the corner too far, but the distorted  _ idee fixe  _ that stamps Benjamin tells George exactly where to find him. 

The bobbing melody Benjamin trails behind him grows louder, more unhinged the closer George is to grabbing the hem of his dressing gown. He clambers down from the catwalk, jubilantly bounding through another set of large oak doors. By no will of his own, George follows, stumbling into the next scene of his damnation. 

A brightly lit ballroom, filled with twirling and tumbling guests. They danced chaotically, unable to find the beat to the caustic music being played. It could have very well been a piece he wrote, only it was  _ wrong.  _ It was dissonant and distorted. At a glance it looked as though some of the violinists were playing the sheet music upside down and backwards. 

Ben swirled in effortlessly with the guests, the ends of his bloodstained gown fluttering as he’s swept up in the chaotic tumble of dancers. They part for him, allowing him through before eagerly pressing up against him, hands just barely grazing his smooth skin. None of them can physically touch him. Their fingers fall short by mere millimeters, a gap so tiny it looks as though he’s walking through their outstretched arms. 

Graceful,mirroring his Benjamin at the ball, he turns on his heels and leads the mass around the dance floor. One floating crimson petal swarmed by a thousand crushing bodies. George attempts to push his way through the crowd, finding that unlike Ben--they can touch him. They pull at his clothes, yanking him in all directions as the tempo of their garish dance upticks. He’s being swept away by a current of bodies, and he can't keep his head up. 

The guests themselves fare no better than George. They fall to the floor and become mush under the heels of those faster than them. Some of them wear clothes riddled with moth balls, barely hanging by a thread. One man’s waistcoat was eaten through, exposing a stomach that stuck to his ribs. George grinds up against a guest, grimacing as he takes the skin off her back with him. Corpses. All of them. Victims of the cruel harem that preyed on their sensibilities. George turned on his heel to keep from falling, but drove his shoe into the foot of a half rotted woman beside him. She made no cry as his foot cut hers in two, causing her to drop to the floor, where she was stomped into sludge. 

George’s throat tightened, a terrible wave of panic setting in. If he failed to escape this swirling mass, he’d rot. It could take centuries, but he’d soon find himself under the heel of some new corpse; someone fresher, with muscle still clinging tight to the bone. He’d turn to sludge. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Ben, twirling with ease off of the dance floor where he passes through a new set of dark oak doors. He leaves them open, slipping into the still darkness beyond. George can make it. He can break out of this and follow him. 

Without Benjamin the mass devolves into a pile of gnashing bodies. Those soft enough to burst split under the crushing weight of their dance partners. George clambers up over a bloated corpse, pulling his heel free from the sack of fat that sucks his foot down. They turn on one another beneath him, the corpses closest to Benjamin being ripped apart by the jealous hands of those just out of reach. George wonders if that’s all they think about; Benjamin, and the desire to touch him once more before they’re ground into mulch. 

By some miracle he falls out of the herd, landing hard on his shoulder as he leaps off the last twisting corpse on the pile. His vision doubles as he feels his head tip off, just briefly, before slamming back onto the stump of his neck. This time he wretches for real, spewing vomit down the front of his blood soaked shirt, desperately ignoring the fact that some of it wasn’t leaving through his mouth.

A slight nudge to his foot jolts George upright, the mass of dancers back on their feet and trying to regain some of their composure. They edge dangerously close, and George springs to his feet for fear of being sucked back in. Before him are the two oak doors, still ajar as Benjamin left them. A cold draft seeped through, thick and heavy enough to draw his breath into clouds as they left his lungs. He moves forward. He has to.

Beyond the doors the light fades back to its pale blue luster. The stone pillars are eroded, still tall as ever, but now teetering dangerously on fractured slabs. Pebbles skitter with every shuffling step, flying in all directions where they echo back like the pop of a pistol. The place groans a low and deep rumble that hums through George. He wants to run, but doesn't; the fall might tip a pillar and bury him beneath the rubble. 

The pale light grows brighter, radiating down to illuminate a large circle at the end of the grand foyer. George stuck close to the pillars, hiding just beyond the halo of light to spy from the shadows. He was alone. Two figures stood close in the center, their shoulders pressed against each other firmly. They whispered quietly as George slipped between the ring of stone. Not even here did he feel like a predator. His shroud of shadows were merely camouflage, the slightest breath would give him away. 

“How much longer?”

“Not much, my dear Alexander.”

George shrunk back at the name. Hamilton and Lafayette, here...alone with him. Somehow the thought was more terrifying than Benjamin. Where Benjamin lured him with looks, Hamilton dropped the axe. He was judge and executioner, orchestrating George’s trip he the guillotine with such swift precision that he must have been an angel of death. Lafayette was just as dangerous. His cunning set the stage for Hamilton’s wrath. It was Lafayette who chose his shop, and he who insisted the ball be hosted at his home. George had no doubt he was the one pressing glass after glass of wine into his hand, priming him for that humiliating incident on the dance floor. It made his blood boil, though there was little he could do to act on it. 

The two linked arms, leaning on one another like two weary lovers. George turned away as they shared a long languid kiss. It wasn't tender. Not in the way humans expressed tenderness. Hamilton sighed, taking a moment to nip at Lafayette’s lower lip. “Now?” He asked breathlessly. The Marquis leaned in for another kiss, drawing this one out longer than the last, pulling back with Hamilton’s lip caught between his teeth. His gaze then turned from Hamilton, piercing straight into the darkness where George lay in hiding.

“Now.” 

Something crawled down George’s hand quick and fast. It bit down into the skin, and George slapped the area instinctively. Removing his palm, he could see a dark ink blot, twitching and writhing on his skin. The spot quivered before splitting into hundreds of smaller dots, all racing and biting down into the skin like ants. George cried out, swatting at the assailants, but as his broad hand clapped down he caught more and more ink blots, birthing thousands of creeping black specks that ate him alive. 

Hamilton and Lafayette advanced, driving him stumbling back into the darkness as he frantically beat the critters off of him. His skin felt tight, like the things had burrowed their way down deep where he could not slap them. 

“Come now, Monsieur Washington. Compose yourself.” Hamilton smiled, his steps clacking noisily on the stone. “It only takes a few minutes to strip you to the bone.” 

Lafayette hummed in agreement, his nose upturned in an obnoxiously dignified way. “Alexander and I have a lovely wager. He claims your bone structure is unattractive. I think your

bones will be perfectly handsome. Care to help us settle?” 

George froze as his heels reached the edge of the stone. It crumbled beneath his foot, leaving only a gaping chasm as his exit. Hamilton and Lafayette drew closer. “Of course, you  _ did _ make it this far. Maybe we should let him see Benjamin one last time.” Hamilton said, waving his hand to dispel the creeping critters from George. They rushed from under his skin, bursting out of cuts and scrapes until a little flood of black ink skittered across the floor and into the chasm. 

George dug his fingers into his stinging palms, heart pounding. “Where is he?” He croaked. Hamilton moved forward, one hand pressing flat against the broad swell of George’s chest.

“ _ The exit” _

And he shoved him.

George fell, and fell, and fell. A whole lifetime of memories floating past him as he hurtled towards the bottom of the pit. Through the tears being whipped away he could see Hamilton and Lafayette on the ledge above him, waving down gleefully. He hit the bottom with a resounding thud, but was surprised to see he hadn't been turned to mush on impact. 

Instead he found himself in the middle of a set, a backwards and corroded depiction of Paris. It was lit by the flame of a large furnace, casting the narrow cobblestone street in a hellish orange glow. The street was cramped, with a space so narrow that a man in motion must move sideways to escape the crush of the crowd. The crowd was...ghastly. Unlike the corpses in the ballroom, these dead men were ghoulish. They had many faces, or none at all. Some stood on long spindly legs, while others hung by their hands from windowsills. Their eyes glistened in the light, vacant and hungry.  _ Hungry. _ George could hear the collective growl as the eyed him on the floor. They were a patchwork of skin sewn from many men, their jagged seams telling George just what they wanted from him. 

And then came a sound so terrible George nearly died of fright. That deep, beastly purr that had stalked him had returned; only this time it was accompanied by thundering footsteps that shook the flimsy Parisian street. Along the slimy stone walls a large shadow crawled, its shape monstrous. It was large. It was close. 

He ran.

George picked himself up off the greasy cobblestone and fled down the narrow street. A man half his size would have to walk sideways through the gap, but George barreled through, knocking decaying limbs off of anyone in his way. The crowd had other ideas, pinching and pull ling at him with clammy fingers. They clawed in an attempt to rip off something useful; some skin, hair, fat to cushion themselves. Their fingers snapped like twigs as he rushed by, sounding off louder than a felled tree.

He turns a corner, witnessing the same scaffold that brought his end. A large door, one that ran up the height of the chasm, stood where the guillotine should go. George could spy a tiny keyhole in the darkness, warm light pouring through it. Sunlight.  _ The exit. _ He reached the door, fingers clawing desperately at the smooth finish. It was marble, solid and heavy, with no handle. George felt tears roll down his face as the sunlight dimmed, the keyhole growing darker by the second. He scratched at the door, leaving bloody takes across the pale marble, but no damage. His fingernails broke and his knuckles bruised as he pounded against the door.

“For all that is good and holy, let me go! I've seen enough!” George cried, face pressed against the door. The scaffold groaned as the shuffling mass of corpses climbed atop it. They clambered ungracefully, but too quickly for George to outrun. There was no place to run, anyway. The Paris street was filled with those patchwork phantoms, all wide eyed and ready to tear him to shreds. 

High above him a candle appeared, igniting the air around an onyx carved ledge. Benjamin, with Hamilton and Lafayette in tow, gazing down at him. George felt so foolish. He couldn't see it before, but now it was plain as day. There was  _ no exit. _ This was a stage. An opera house of eternal torment they used to toy with their victims. George had stumbled into the finale. 

He grabbed an iron poker, discarded on the floor, and tried to swing at the mob. Bits of blood and fat sprayed as he hit them, but the mass pressed closer. George’s weapon was lost as one plump corpse impaled himself on the iron, sucking it away from George’s sweaty grip. Above him thundering laughter sounded as he tried to punch the next corpse that touched him. His circle of safety was shrinking, the crush of the mob almost within arm's reach. 

From his opera box Benjamin watched in rapturous glee, with Hamilton and Lafayette laughing shrilly beside him. His lips moved silently, but George felt as though he could hear the words directly in his mind. 

“ _ Washington’s going to hell” _

It repeated over and over, like a playground taunt as George was forced up against the marble door. He screamed for Ben.  _ Pleaded _ with him. He felt the fingers of dead men pressing into his sides, clawing at his face. The whole stage was a cacophony of screams and laughter. George cried as the fingers dug into his flesh, finally pulling free whatever bits they desired. With foolish hope, he kept his gaze up, pleading that Ben will call off this hideous attack.

The pain becomes unbearable, and the last thing George sees are Ben’s piercing blue eyes just before he blows out the candle. 


	6. Lelio

_ O my joy, my life _ __  
_ My whole being, my God, my universe! _ __  
_ Is he with you some that I want? _ __  
_ I see you, you smile, the heavens are open to me! _ __  
_ The intoxication of love for us is too hot, _ __  
_ This tender abatement is more delicious. _ __  
_ Rests in my arms, rests this charming head! _ __  
_ Come! Come! O my dream lover, _ _  
_ __ On my distraught heart. Just close your beautiful eyes!

-Hector Berlioz, _Lélio, ou Le retour_ à la _vie_   


* * *

 

It all comes to him in a rush. A great exhale that takes the air from his body, and makes way for the warmth. Beautiful, comforting warmth. It presses against his eyelids sweet as kisses, and blows across his face gentle as a summer breeze. There is a soft voice in his ear, it's words lost to him, but gentle all the same. It’s safe here. 

George remains in this blissful limbo, his body heavy and unwanting to stir from its cozy spot. There are no thoughts. No emotions. No fears, desires, or hunger. It is all just here and now, a warm ball of light that encircles him and cradles his aching bones. It's heat swells in his chest like a wave, pushing all his pain to foreign shores too far to feel. If he wanted, he could open his eyes. Take a sharper inhale and wake his body. 

He wills himself to do it countless times. Just to move one finger and probe the new realm he has fallen into. 

Something cards through his hair, rubbing slow circles into his scalp. George isn't alone, but he isn't afraid. This touch is tender, and he melts into it like a child longing for his mother’s embrace. More gentle caresses start to filter through the haze. A thumb brushing slowly against his cheek, breath close to his hair, whispers that don't quite fall on his ears--but are soothing all the same. 

It is only when the smell of honeysuckle passes his face that George feels a twinge of panic. Could it be? Would he wake to find himself at the start of this nightmare, hungry and drenched in the syrupy aroma of honeysuckle blossoms? Would this hell repeat over and over for eternity, the life draining from Ben under his hands as the duvet turned deep red…

“ _ George” _

George turns towards the sound of his name. It's breathy, hushed by concern and adoration. The heaviness plaguing his body begins to creep away, his fingers twitching against something soft and cool. Bed linens...a mattress softer than a cloud. He's laid out in bed, in a room so bright George fears he’ll be blinded if he opens his eyes. The voice speaks again;

“ _ George, oh! He’s stirring! Quick, let in some air. Let him breathe!”  _

There are sounds. A frantic clattering noise far on his right; the shivering panes of glass against a window frame. Fresh new air enters his lungs, rich with the smell of earth. He is part of those rolling fields he wept in, and yet far from it. The light filtering through his eyelids becomes more bearable, welcoming even, as he draws each new breath. Mustering up the last remaining ounce of his courage, George cracks his eyes open warily.

Unfathomable blue.

A summer sky. A childhood on the lake. Bolts of silk and ribbons wrapped tight around gentle curls. Two large, soulful eyes staring back into his. George moves his lips to speak, but finds them dry and chapped. His voice draws forth raspy and thin, sounding like a man parched. 

“ _ Benjamin” _

It  _ is _ him! Alive and well, with rosy cheeks and golden hair falling out of its queue. George’s heart flutters as he admires this radiant image, his gaze dropping down to his lips; swollen and red from where it was caught between anxious teeth. So red. Almost like blood…

Panic sweeps across George, the horrible images of hell yet again flashing before his eyes. Though weak, his hands fly to his neck, fingers fumbling to feel for the gash. He is met with only skin. Warm, intact skin. No amount of jostling could tip this head from his shoulders. Ben gently grasped George’s hands, moving them away from his neck. His hands tense at the touch as though he expects Ben’s fingers to seat into his flesh. He waits, breath caught in his chest, for some horrific wound to open up and fill the sheets with blood. Yet it never happens. Ben’s eyes are kind and gentle; nothing like the demonic visage he saw in the harem. His thumbs brush lovingly over George’s hands before withdrawing, their warmth lingering on his skin.

“Thank God you are alive. George, I have never been so frightened.” Ben babbled, his voice quiet to the point of breaking. George took a minute to respond. His eyes roamed the room idly. He lay in a large four poster bed, it's curtains made of fine sheer silk. Ivory. Just like his vision. But these were delicate, and more importantly  _ spotless. _ Morning sunlight shimmered through them, enveloping Benjamin in a soft hazy light. 

There was honeysuckle all along the window sill and most likely cascading down the side of the manse. Yet now that he was awake, their syrupy aroma did not churn his stomach. He wished to taste one. To drop the nectar on his tongue and taste what sunshine felt like. The walls were painted light blue, and adorned with mirrors and other trinkets. The chairs and vanity were of dark cherry wood, with royal blue cushions to match. It was all very handsome. “Where am I?” George asked, though he had an inkling of where he was.

Ben’s cheeks flushed, his gaze lowering to watch his fingers swirl against the bedsheets. “My room.” He blushed, his voice still small. It was then George noticed another figure hovering in the doorway. The man was lean, with his arms crossed defensively over his chest, his face set in a look of utter embarrassment.

“Hello, Monsieur Hamilton.” 

Hamilton didn't meet his gaze right away, choosing to watch himself toe at the hardwood floor. “Glad to see you are well, Monsieur Washington.” He mumbled. George felt unease churn in the pit of his stomach. Hamilton looked like a scolded child sheepishly searching the floorboards for something to say. It was just as embarrassing for George to look upon him as it was for Hamilton to return his gaze. He thought briefly of the opium, its sharp taste lingering on his tongue. He wondered if Hamilton could taste it too; the bitter shame that both of them had lived to see each other once more. 

Turning back, George let his hand fall over Ben’s, squeezing it ever so gently. “You...you came for me?” He asked. It felt strange; the act of asking if Ben had truly come for him, or had happened upon his lifeless body by some accident. The question cut into Ben, pain filling his eyes.

“ _ Of course. _ George, I...I...care for you so deeply. I was a fool. An utter disgrace at the ball, and I almost...I almost lost you.” 

George felt as though his heart were in a vice. How could he have poisoned himself? How could he have doubted that his Benjamin would come for him? The pain in his eyes gave it away. This poor boy had found him in the field. Benjamin was the one to find him like that. George dropped his gaze to the bed, unable to endure the shame. How dreadfully awful he had been.

“Then...you were aware of what transpired between Monsieur Hamilton and myself?” George whispered. Ben’s hand clenched beneath his, his eyes darting towards Hamilton’s withdrawn figure by the door. Hamilton turned his face away from Ben’s gaze, and for a brief moment George could see the telltale mark of a bruise, expertly caked over with powder. George lifted his palm ever so slightly to look at Ben’s hand, revealing fading bruises along his knuckles.

“ _ Alexander _ does not speak for me. Not now, not ever. And had I known what vile poison he had placed in your hands, dear George, I wouldn't have wasted a moment coming for you. Never in my life have I been so appalled by what transpired between us. 

I cannot  _ choose. _ I cannot leave my family, who have provided years of comfort and joy. And yet, I also cannot leave you, for it is with you that I have found a love I have never experienced before. What childish fantasy did you both succumb to, to think that I could bear being in a life without either of you? To deny that I have more love to share than any one person could hold? It is silly! It is…”

Ben sighed, shaking off the remnants of an argument George had missed. He exhaled through his nose sharply, taking a moment of silence before a smile started to tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“It is understandable”

George was taken aback. Both he and Hamilton had acted appallingly. They endangered each others lives and reputations, exchanging heated words and accusations with fingers jabbed deep into each others chest.  _ Understandable _ ? How Ben could find meaning in this madness seemed impossible. Ben noticed his distress, and patted his knee.

“You have taught me that passion is a marvelous thing. It is wild, all consuming. You feel it in your soul and it burns you alive. A tiny spark is all that's required to do untold damage. Your letters, your sweet words and gentle touches drove me mad. I was too blind to see that it was also driving those around me closer to insanity.” 

Ben looked over to the doorway, but Hamilton had departed. His presence was no more than a phantom of the experiences they had shared. George felt tears come to his eyes, twisting the sheets between his palms. “Does this mean...that we...are we not…”

His pitiful cries were hushed by a pair of lips, soft and pliant against his own. Ben’s hands found their way into his hair, running the strands through his fingers before grasping the base of his skull firmly. George’s breath hitched as the quick flick of Ben’s tongue crossed his lower lip. It tasted of sweet strawberries and wine, so decadent and luxurious on George’s lips. They parted, their breath mingling close in small puffs as their foreheads met. 

“My sweet George. I cannot bear to have you away from me another moment. If you’ll have me, I’ll be by your side every day.” He laughed. Nothing could have sounded as sweet and sincere in that moment. Joy swelled up in George’s chest, his feverish nightmare long since abandoned for the warmth of Ben’s embrace. God how he wanted him; longed to kiss him and praise him. His mind willed his body to push Ben to the bed, but his body was still too weak to act. 

“My darling Benjamin, how I’ve longed to hear you say those words. I have seen things, terrible things, but for no other reason than to make this moment ever the more beautiful. I will never leave you again.” 

A new sound interrupted their moment. The tinkling of piano keys from another room, followed by the sounds of a man singing. It's melody was strong and romantic, evoking the image of a man shouting his love to the stars. He knew this piece...he knew it quite well.

“Is that…”

“Yes, sweet George. Your symphony,  _ ou Le Retour á la vie. _ ” Ben smiled, his fingers playing with the loose auburn curls framing George’s face. “ _ The return to life. _ How beautiful that you are alive and well to hear it.” 

The singer paced through the lyrics, a little strained. “Who, may I ask, is singing?” George asked, trying to see the sheet music in his mind. 

“Why, Gilbert, of course. He's the only one of us who has the voice for it.” Ben said. George lifted himself up, hearing his back pop and creak under the strain.

“If you don't mind, Benjamin. I would like to give your dear friend a few instructions.” George moved to peel back the covers, only to be stopped by the lightest touch of Ben’s hand. George yielded, studying the budding red tint adorning Ben’s cheeks. 

“I would be  _ happy _ to escort you to the practice room. However, we must cover you up. I'm afraid what you wore here is no longer viable.” Ben explained, his eyes shielded by those long lashes. George looked down at himself, finally noting the nightshirt he wore. It was tight across his broad chest, and meant for a man much more slender than he. Shimmying his hips, he could also feel that the material ended slightly below his hip, his lower half bare and exposed. 

“Have you been dressing me, Benjamin?” He asked, relishing the way his cheeks darkened. Ben rose from the bed quickly, heading to a large armoire. He busied himself among the long dressing gowns hung neatly in a row, finally drawing out a dark grey piece. It was cut rather large, and looked to be about the right size for him. Ben laid it out over George’s lap, unable to meet his gaze.

“I took care of you, yes. You were so weak, and I was afraid you’d slip away the moment I left your side. I hope you can forgive me. It wasn't right of me to…to look.” There it was. That spark of heat that George felt at the ball, rolling over in Ben’s eyes as his mind flittered away to the memory of undressing George on the bed. He wondered if Ben was shy, refusing to look until it was too difficult to redress him. Or perhaps he paused, washcloth grasped tightly in hand as he saw all of George before him. It was a sorry sight to miss. 

The robe fit just barely, and George had to walk in slow shuffling steps to avoid undoing its delicate knot. The material was fine, more luxurious than anything he had ever worn. Everything here was luxurious. The Marquis’ manse was positively dripping with indulgences. Paintings lined the walls, depicting landscapes and historical scenes. The oils were rich in color, with the same glossy finish as if they were just completed--though their signatures dated them up to a hundred years prior. 

George slowed his shuffling to admire a fine portrait; a family, with a small child whose face was just as sweet and round as Lafayette.

“Gilbert’s parents. Alexander’s portrait is just down the hall.” Ben explained. George nodded, searching the walls for a third painting. 

“And yours, dear Benjamin?”

Ben took his hand, leading him away from the still glassy eyes of the painting. “My father was a pious man. He kept his tastes simple, believing it would reward him. I hardly knew we had money until he passed. It angered me deeply that he refused to touch a penny of it for medicine, and died in his bed sickly and pale.” There was a hardness to his voice, a deep wound that never scanned over. His small hand gripped so tightly around George’s wrist, so very tightly, as if he wished to shatter his anger beneath his fingers. 

“My father so firmly believed spending it would be a sin that he didn't stop once to think about those he left behind. Money makes fools of us all.” 

George offered an arm for comfort, which Ben wrapped himself in, curling close to his chest. Poor child. This sweet young angel just a wounded bird, it's wing twisted beneath him. He bent down to press his lips against the golden locks below him, the faint smell of jasmine lingering beneath his nose. 

“I know the pain of disease, dear Benjamin, and the havoc it wreaks on the body and soul. It is a violent end, one that gives its victim hours to look upon his life and regret. I have no doubt that your father looked upon you with mourning, for in losing his life he feared ending yours. Pious men may be stubborn, but they take an epiphany when they see one.” 

Ben let out a sad little laugh into his chest, choking back tears. “My George, have you sat by the bedside of those you loved and pretended you could not smell death upon them?” 

George sighed, easing Ben off his chest to turn his face upwards, cupping his cheeks between his broad palms. He was so small now, so terribly weak and helpless. George thumbed away at the tears, rubbing the tear tracks clean from those stained porcelain cheeks. More fat blubbery tears welled up, and those too he diligently brushed aside.

“I have seen disease, and I have been diseased.” George said, pressing his thumbs along the bridge of Ben’s nose, under his eyes and over his cheeks. He traced imaginary pox scars along Ben’s unmarred face, watching Ben as he stared up at his own. “I bear the mark always. I survived by some miracle, and then again today by another. Perhaps, even with age, I am too hardy to die.” 

Ben raised his hands to George’s face, mirroring the delicate touch to feel the scars dappled across his cheeks. He looked upon him with awe, like a child marveling at a statue. There was no pity, only adoration and wonder shining through blue eyes; he was a stone Adonis to him, weathered but all the more beautiful. 

“The hardiest flowers take root deep in the soil. No storm can rip them up, and no cart can trample them down. They return in the Spring reborn.” Ben said, his fingers moving over the crest of his cheeks. 

Those words lingered between them a few moments longer, their hands still fondly on the other’s face in silent admiration until the sounds of the house filtered back to them. The piano still played, with Lafayette trying his hardest to sing what was on the page. George felt a smile cross his lips as the Marquis hit a sour note, his voice tight and strained. “We’d best attend to that before Monsieur Lafayette hurts himself.” 

* * *

 

The practice room was marvelous. Much like the rest of the house, the Marquis had painstakingly decorated it to his lavish tastes. The floor was a deep dark wood, polished until it reflected like a still lake. Large windows flooded the room with light, illuminating the piano and bench where Lafayette stood. He read off a flimsy music stand as Hamilton tapped away on the piano. A metronome swung methodically between them. 

Lafayette’s singing ceased as George entered, his eyes lighting up. “Monsieur Washington! You need not leave your bed just yet!” He gushed, his hands waving frantically, as if to will George to sit. Hamilton scoffed, returning his attention to the sheet music.

“Gilbert, the man lay dying and now he is risen. You’ll have to sing the piece right, lest you intend to put the poor soul into the ground.” Lafayette rested his hands on his slender hips, small but defiant. 

“I am perfectly able to sing it,  _ Alexander _ ! Your playing is what is hindering me. You and your clumsy fingers.” He hissed, embarrassed. George shuffled to the piano bench, silently motioning for Hamilton to slide over. The man rose to give him his seat, turning the piece back to the first page. Lafayette shuffled nervously on his feet, arranging his own music quickly.

“Now then, we’ll slow the tempo.” George said. He placed his hands to the keys, flourishing chords where there should be sweeping strings. A delicate melody emerged, soaring high as a bird through soft wispy clouds. It rose higher and higher before dipping low, a gentle descent to where Lafayette must sing. George nodded his head, indicating the downbeat, cuing Lafayette to sing:

_ “O my joy, my life, _ _  
_ _ My whole being, my God, my universe!” _

The tempo was slow, and George mouthed the lyrics along with Lafayette, noting where his voice became high and strained, and where it was rich and full. When his verse had ended, George let the piece play out, the last of Lafayette’s voice reverberating through the practice room, coloring the last few measures of the music. When the last note was tickled from the piano, and the strings stopped their humming, there was silence. The brief, beautiful moment of silence necessary to musicians and listeners alike, where a piece is absorbed into your heart and soul. George exhaled loudly.

“It sounds to me like you do not take your breathing exercises seriously.” He said. Hamilton and Ben covered their mouths, bodies shaking with laughter. 

“Oh it's  _ true _ !”

“Gilbert, when will you learn?”

Lafayette tapped his foot against the hardwood, not pleased with his friends’ mockery. “You always tease me over the breathing! It is  _ hard _ , and my voice---” George raised a hand, silencing the Marquis. He motioned for him to come closer, and with the help of Ben was able to stand to further instruct Lafayette. 

“Breathing  _ is _ hard. We must project our voice without destroying it. You are tight in the throat, when it should be coming from  _ here. _ ” George said, pressing his hand on the soft swell of Lafayette’s stomach, just below the point where the sternum ends. “We breathe deep, fill up the whole body, and draw from down here. As for those high notes you are so struggling with…” George pressed his thumbs to the back of Lafayette’s jaw, easing it open. “Release the tension. Relax the throat. Up and out.” 

The second time sounded better, the third even more so. Hamilton watched with fascination as George worked, edging closer to the piano each round. His breath fell in heavy puffs over his shoulder, lips breathlessly counting along with the music. After only an hour they broke to rest, Lafayette indulging in a glass of sherry while insisting Ben drink up to celebrate their good work. 

Hamilton sat cautiously on the piano bench next to George, hands clasped nervously in his lap.

“I have…” his breath hitched, and it took a moment to compose himself.

“I have been most cruel to you, Monsieur Washington. I know any apology I might offer you would be an embarrassment. I toyed with your very being, and the moment I placed that vial in your hand I damned myself. I have been through hell and back, praying desperately you would wake and bring joy back to Benjamin’s life. 

He dared not leave your side, not once in the three days you struggled. I sent for your things, and we found this symphony. Benjamin wept when he saw it. He showed us your letters, though I was too ashamed to read them. I had snuffed out something pure, and your words only drove the knife deeper. And now you are awake, and well, and I am so utterly grateful. So painfully ashamed of myself and my actions...I…” 

George placed a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. “My half-brother Lawrence was a lover of things strange and misunderstood. He was the type of man who would see a snake in the road, and urge it gently to the cover of tall grass. When I asked if he was scared of being bitten, he told me no. That these creatures are small, and frightened. They spit venom not out of malice, but of self preservation. Give them their space, and they will not harm you.”

Hamilton wrung his hands in his lap, voice small and trembling. “So then I am the snake? I am something to be feared.”

George shook his head. “No. You are the snake, and you are something to be  _ respected.  _ This is your home. Benjamin is your family. I behaved lewdly at the ball, and you struck to put me in my place. Never again will I cross you. I would rather gain your friendship than your wrath, Monsieur Hamilton.”

“Alexander.”

“Pardon?”

“You may call me Alexander, sir.” 

Hamilton’s knuckles were white, nails digging deep into the flesh of his palm as he waited with baited breath for George’s approval. The bitterness between them dissipated, leaving Hamilton guilty and exposed. It touched his heart, and in the spirit of kindess, George forgave him.

“You may call me George, as all friends of mine do.” He said, ignoring the tears falling into Hamilton’s lap. The boy was too proud to acknowledge them. 

Never had a day gone by so quickly than when George was in the rich company of Ben’s friends. They are heartily, the trio swapping stories as George listened in keenly. Images of dazzling dances pranced ‘round the table, expertly mimed by Benjamin and Lafayette, their cheeks pink and hot. The wine flowed freely, though George only had one glass. His stomach was still sensitive, and he wished to remain well to further enjoy his new companions. 

Lafayette, clever as he was, smoothed over George’s fear of publicly embarrassing Benjamin. “Oh my, yes.  _ Someone _ may have told the Countess Genevieve that the display at the Peony Ball was a dramatization of Monsieur Washington’s newest opera! A highly exclusive, highly  _ scandalous _ piece of work that our treasured composure was drafting. Where else to premier it than at  _ our ball _ , with guests of good tastes!” He laughed, wine glass spilling in his clumsy hands. 

Hamilton chuckled, dabbing his napkin over his lips. “Dearest Gilbert, you are a genius. Now our poor George must write a  _ whole opera, _ instead of laying his sweet praises on Benjamin each night.” 

Ben blushed deeply, his hand tugging on the sleeve of George’s dressing gown. It was time they retire, and he had the distinct feeling that Benjamin wasn't drowsy just yet. 

* * *

The bed was even softer than when he woke, cradling George gently as he was helped in. The room was lit by candles, their soft flicker casting long shadows along the walls. They stood vigil, like a line of elongated soldiers guarding their bed. Benjamin disappeared into the adjacent washroom, the rustle of clothing deafening in the silence. George took to undoing the knot on his gown, letting the material fall open beneath the sheets. 

Benjamin was  _ divine.  _ His crimped hair was brushed out, now framing his face in loose waves. His own gown was of light blue silk, not sheer, but soft to the touch. He sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling at the knot closing his robe. “You must forgive me, George. I have dreamt of this for many nights, but now that you're here I am…” he trailed off, his lashes lowered in a bashful display. 

George reached out to touch him, his palms running over the taut body beneath the silk. Through the material he could feel the bud of a nipple, pert and inviting. He let out a shuddered breath as Ben’s eyes fluttered. This was  _ it.  _ But his body was still weary from the drug, and he could not think to wildly pin Benjamin to the bed. At least not tonight. 

“We’ll go slow.” George breathed, pulling the knot free. The robe opened, billowing out to expose the smooth expanse of Ben’s chest, his rosy nipples out. George slipped his hands between silk and skin, marveling at how similar they felt against his hands. Slowly, deftly, the silk fell from his shoulders, pooling around his waist in a blue puddle. 

Benjamin rose and let the robe slip away, where it fell to the floor--forgotten. George moaned as his eyes fell upon Benjamin, taking his time drinking in the little details of his lover’s exposed body. Rosy nipples, small and hard. A fine fuzz of blonde hair that trickled from his navel, down past the deep V of his hips, where his cock stood pink and perfect;just waiting for someone to touch it. 

George’s hand worked his own cock beneath the blankets, the ache already unbearable as he gazed upon Ben. Deft hands pulled back the sheet, and warm flesh met his,Ben’s legs on either side of him. Those deep blue eyes watched him, following each stroke with awe. Where Ben’s cock was slender, George’s was thick and heavy. It fit neatly in the broad palm of his hand, twitching and jumping the longer Ben stared at it. Temptation was too hard to resist, and George pressed close to Ben, grasping both their cocks in his fist, where he set a slow and steady pace.

Ben melted. His hips leaned forward, offering up more of his cock to George’s movements. A whine formed in his throat, high and needy, as his neck and chest flushed before him. It was astounding. He was receptive, eager, so hungry to be pleased that within a few minutes of being touched he was begging for something harder. George abandoned their cocks briefly to pull Benjamin on top of him, rolling his hips up to press into his aching groin. Ben whined, his hips grinding up to chase the sweet friction George offered.

“Don't let go” Ben gasped, burying his face in the tender juncture of George’s neck. His breath drew forth in quick pants, hot against the underside of his jaw. He could feel the soft cushion of Ben’s lips drag over the rough stubble dappling his neck, returning it's bite with bared teeth that raked over the sensitive skin sinfully. With their cocks trapped between them the two writhed frantically, their

hips abandoning their steady rhythm for something wilder. George’s vision blurred, the sounds of Ben gasping on top of him urging him forward. It beckoned him like a siren, pushing him further and further towards the rocks, where he would tumble and succumb. 

Heat clenched in his gut as white flashed before his eyes. Hot sticky heat erupted between them, George’s overstimulated cock still being worked over by Benjamin. George gripped his hips tight, thick fingers digging deep into the meat hard enough to evoke a cry from Benjamin. From here he was a mass of writhing flesh, his face pressed against his jaw, where he babbled incoherently between moans. George felt privileged, luckier than any man on earth to witness this; Benjamin Tallmadge, Society darling, Paris’ little porcelain doll, grinding up against him while he begged for more. 

George’s release smeared across their stomachs, mixing with sweat as Ben relentlessly rode him. As good as it was, all things must end, and Ben came with a high whine before collapsing limply on top of George. 

Just as a piece of music finishes, here too was there a necessary silence. A moment where both men let the warmth of their orgasm overtake them, weighing their bodies down delightfully as their breath returned. Every sound echoes back in their ears, and George commits every wanton plea to memory. His Benjamin. His darling boy. He closes his eyes and stores each babble away, someplace warm and private in his mind. Benjamin does the same, tracing lazy circles over George’s chest, each dimple in the flesh taken into careful consideration. 

They resettle, a wash cloth passed between them as they breathlessly wipe away the drying cocktail of sweat and seed. George relishes the silence, unable to put to words what he feels. Yet there is a melody. That beautiful, haunting solo that has followed him since the moment Benjamin set foot in his shop. It’s throaty longing tones are now sated, and have eased into a gentle current that sweeps his mind far away. Yet no matter how far he drifts, Benjamin is there beside him, sighing soft harmonies into his ear. There is love, and pain, and raw tenderness that makes his chest ache every time his name is whispered to him. 

It is rebirth; plain and simple. A second chance for a struggling soul, where he could leave his sorrows and rush headlong into the future. And as the man curled beneath his arm starts to doze, George does not see the angel who lit his soul alight, nor the demon who cast him into the bowels of hell. He sees Benjamin. Someone kind and sweet, full of old wounds and hopeful words. He is flesh and blood beneath his fingers, undeniably real. Unrelentlessly human. Ben’s breath slows to a steady huff, soft snuffling filling the air, and George feels his eyes begin to close. The crooning melody in his mind begins to fade, the last progression of chords dissolving into the hushed hum of crickets in the night air. 

And tomorrow, when dawn breaks over the horizon, a new symphony will begin--loud and triumphant. George and Benjamin, and the return to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin!
> 
> It is finally done! I am so happy to have been able to share this with you. Thank you to all who have showed such a great interest in this, and to those whose support was vital to it's completion. I love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> More benwash, and the musical accompaniment to bits of this story, can be found on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! Let me know you had fun.


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